A conversation with a stranger...

Why does it get so difficult to live with yourself sometimes?

With yourself and the things you've done?

Why do some lives seems like curses?

And yet you prefer that curse over a death that you know nothing about?

Why do you sometimes have to watch your hands

Carry out the brutal killing of your own happiness...

And yet you live to tell the sorry tale...

Tell me stranger...

If you have nothing to look foward to in life...

If even your most persistent hope died recently on a cold winter morning...

Even if you feel less human than the air and rocks around you...

Can you still say that you're alive?

Tell me stranger...

If you can't feel anymore...

If pain and joy affect you no more

Even if you're too young to die and too dead to be alive...

Can you still say that you're alive?

Why isn't there a mercy killing for souls like you?

You might deserve it more then those comatose people in hospital rooms...

Everybody around you thinks thoughts like these

Because life is tough and they can't take it...

In so many thoughts of death and destruction,

Your dark feeling gets a little lost...

But tell me stanger...

Does that make your pain any less to you?

Can you still say that you're alive?