Sucker for Love

Here I've thought I'm a sucker for love, but all this time I've just been a sucker. I guess it figures in a sort of way. Some have the looks, others the wits, the smarts or the charms. All I got is the blues, and that's nothing attractive. Even in my dreams I get turned down by the ones I think I feel something for. It's shit like this artists write songs about before they paint the walls with their brains, or whatever goo that may fill their cranium at that given time. Somehow I feel this might be linked up to my endless frustration towards my species, life, fate and all that bullcrap. People say it's hard to understand the minds of those who choose to end their lives. How hard can it be? It's as simple as realizing that not being alive beats being alive. You chose to end the stream of events in a realization that they'll probably just make bad worse. It's not insanity, far from it, it's a perfectly reasonable train of thoughts that often occur with depressed people. I however, would not do it. Not that I haven't thought of it as a simple solution, but simply because I want something good to happen. I'd suffer for years to come, in a stubborn anticipation that SOMETHING good should eventually come my way. By gods, if some of the primates I am ashamed to have called friends once, have been able to find a form of happiness, then there should be hope for me somewhere out there. Now I realize this ramble probably didn't help my chances at all, but fuck it. I give the world my shit so I won't have to cope with it all myself.