I'm not good with titles...

Death.
The light at the end of the tunnel.
The blackness isn't bright,
but it hits one's eyes like a ray of sunlight on a clear day.
With all faith set aside, if I had any that is, I embrace it with an open mind and open arms.
Drink it in, sleeping forever is eternal bliss,
Family, friends, mortal enemies, good times, and bad, all left behind.
With one blow to the head,
With one noose.
With one bottle of pills.
With one gun.
With one fall.
With one very far fall.
I could end it all.
It's easy, it's obvious I only need one.
One of something, anything lethal really.
Fuck god.
If he's always watching me, let him watch me die.
And he's not gonna do a damn thing about it.
I'm left on this earth.
Locked in my own mind,
Of course all my problems are in my head,
What it boils down to is I'm a middle class white little birch,
I've come to terms with that, but that doesn't stop me from having these thoughts.
The doctors don't either, and fuck prozac.
All my problems are in my head, so why not blow it off?
My daddy tried.
Luckily he pussed out.
But on the contrary everyone now expects me to pull the same shit,
Why not?
I'm not blaming him for anything I love my father to death, but it's possible some of the suicidal tendencies rubbed off on me,
The pad and pen.
The guitar.
The sterio.
Ciggarettes and booze.
Friends.
Family.
I still have things to keep me sane.
But, what goes up must go down.
And good things die too, fuck karma.
Nobody saved Che Guevera, Martin Luther King, Sid Vicious, or Kurt Cobain.
So who's gonna fuckin' save me?
Nobody helps african children.
Nobody rescues war torn Iraq from American meatheads,
So who the fucks gonna save me?
Nobody, that's who.
Who's gonna save the punk ass white kid sitting on your curb smoking a ciggarette?
No fuckin' body.
And I don't blame 'em.