Again, this is a poem written about a year ago, when my depression was the deepest, and my prospects for living were slim, and again, I feel blessed to be who I am today: i am nothing i have no voice. i have no rights. i have no way to feel. i have no pride. i have no worth. i think i am not real. i cannot yell. i cannot cry. i cannot tell a soul. i cannot live. i have not died. i’m only growing old. i am not here, the time is vague, i do not have a plan. i hate my life. i hate my fate. i hate the thing I am. it is horrific to feel like nothing, to never even count. i cut my wrists i bang my head, to let the venom out.