No presents under the tree, no tree at all,
For three years now going, this winter since fall.
No Thanksgiving turkey, or any New Year’s champagne,
No company present, no one to entertain.
Normal routines seem strange and now eerie,
I walk all alone, I start to grow weary.
I stare at blank walls, while alone in my room,
The stillness, the silence resembles my tomb.
Sometimes I’ll start thinking “I wish I was dead,
I’ve got nothing at present, nothing ahead.”
I then hate myself when my standards will not subside.
I must endure so much more, for I hate suicide.
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