Minuscule Purity

Looking around at all these people,
From atop this 30 foot steeple.
Them looking at me with a false care,
They say that I shouldn’t think or dare.
Why would they care if I left this life,
All I seem to do is go through strife.
I just want the pain to be over,
I am guilty of being a self-loather.
Death has hinted for me to come home,
Why stay bound in flesh and bone?
The last breath is never deep,
From the veins does the blood seep.
Why do people ask me what’s hindering,
My life and will seem to be withering.
There are ways out but it’s unfair,
There might be some who care.
The pure are outnumbered 100:1,
But the few are as bright as the sun.
Why do those who get close to me die first,
Seems as though I have simply been cursed.
Slowly kill myself more and more day to day,
I never have anything to prove or say.
The past is an evil, dark memory of pain,
I am not okay, I have always been insane.
Death is the Father of Dark and Death,
My life has been just that, he is my breath.
I find comfort in the pain and abuse,
All these feelings cause me bemuse.
The substances take off the edge,
But I refuse to step off the ledge.
Slowly lean to and fro to frame an accident,
Maybe even kick the chair to wear an amulet.
Feel my lungs constrict and collapse,
I await the long breathing lapse.