Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Living the high standards
Living in the high standard world.
Dissiplinning every slight error that occurs,
Making me feel like a fraud,
When I've made the smallest mistake.
Hating everything I like to do
Hating everything I like to listen to
Nosing around in everything I'm involved in.
Making sure its up to your high standards.
Making me feel like a simple, invisible, screw up
When I failed at something you expected me to ace.
The disappointment I see in your eyes when I fail
Is so unbareable, it makes me want to die.
Makes me want to erase myself from the world.
Makes me want to fix your problem,
In which I assumed it was me.
Your fucking high standards might show
A well mannered daughter with lots of potential,
But your fucking high standards are suffocating me.
Making it impossible for me to breathe freedom.
The only solution I see to resolve your disapointing
problems and my unreachable gasp of freedom,
Is to lock myself in my room when you're gone,
Grabbing my pocket knife from the lower drawer,
Hiding myself in the walk-in closet.
And slowly,
Slitting my wrist deep enough to cut my vein,
Making my blood pour out uncontrolably
as my eyes water in the thought that I was never good
enough.
Lying there motionless,
Thinking, "Is this what you wanted?"
15 minutes later,
When you come home from work,
You notice my stereo is on and blasting through the walls.
You yelled, you screamed and kicked the locked door,
Ordering me to lower the music.
Your expected result of shutting the music off did not take place.
Furious, you think I am simply ignoring you.
You walk away and start to prepare our dinner
While I'm lying in a pool of my blood, dead in the closet.
Although you are furious, you're worried and you check again.
Speaking in a calm tone, knocking on the door politely,
Asking me to come out of my room to talk.
You look down to the floor
Feeling like you're unable to reach me
And you notice a stream of blood coming from under my door.
You panicked and broke open the door.
Following the stream of blood to the closed door of my closet.
You open it quickly and stare down at my wrist and pocket knife.
Noticing a bloody peice of paper in my hand,
You take it and read what the note says.
You cry in an emotional wreck when you read the words
I've placed inside the note which said;
"Now that I am dead, I'm free of your high standards,
And you're free of the burden of having me as your daughter,
Now that I am gone, tell me,
How does it feel to know that your fucking high
standards have lead me to my suicide?"
the path i've chosen ;
6:31 AM
