The Poem that Cried Wolf

While slashing away paper infinite of age,
attempting to think ahead of myself,
setting up the stage.

A stage to be acted on,
a stage meant for tears,
a stage for those who listen,
people who use their ears.

But for those who can't seem to focus,
and refuse to give a care,
what I'll give them, what I'll give them,
point blank, a stare.

A stare can mean many things,
it can be empty filled with nothing,
but filling it with nothing,
does that not count for something.

Just a thought of a thought,
gives me chills down my spine,
maybe I should stop my process,
refuse it, decline.

Stop the train, stop my train let it reach it's destination,
to be able to feel like you feel after masturbation,
success and then sickened by the actions just done,
curl into a ball, alone, no fun.

Maybe just maybe what I'm saying is to broad,
I see you there, a meaningless nod,
To be born might have been the greatest mistake,
I knew it, God dammit,
I knew it was fake.

Well, every lasting poem can be ended with a quote,
but whose to say this is a poem,
not a suicide note.