Not a Note

i am going to be dead
sometime, as long as my blood is red
i'm just so fed
up with trying and getting out of bed
each morning i wonder why i am not dead

and it's sad
it's mad
it's fucked up, i cant add
to my troubles anymore i'd be so glad
to not be sad

but i cant stand
how bland
how each strand
of life's hair can seem so planned
to knock me down so i can no longer stand.

but don't cry for me
this is what i want, see?
it's crazy and stupid and carefree
and i hate to do this but i'm already out to sea
and i don't want you to cry over me.

they're are all just thoughts
like ink blots
in my head full of knots
where my own mind plots
to kill me with all of these wonderful thoughts.