No Sympathy For The Suicidal Poem by matt fromm

Sitting at the great ones table
And I feel all alone.
Pumping a 12 gauge round down the throat of the principal
And getting no satisfaction.
Whistling to the beat of a bowie song on a rainy morning and still no smile.
Time to roll another one.
Time to look in the mirror, slap uor self in the face telling your self to man up.
Having visions of cooking up, on a hill over looking your town.
Pretending it is your town.
The accusations repeating over and over again.
Knowing as true as the stars, which are hidden by city life, somewhere out there, true love exists.