Please Listen Poem by Sketcher Ridpath

I ask myself, "What's the point? ",
Then end up rolling another joint,
Completely forgetting the question,
Never again to be mentioned,
Or brought up again ever,
These are the thoughts that must be severed,
Because thinking about it,
Makes me want to end it all, just quit,
So I sit and I stall in the pit,
Of loneliness under sedatives,
See me and say, "yeah, he kind of lives",
But obviously, I'm mostly dead,
A hunk of sad flesh that wants love instead,
Of more common necessities,
Dot your I's and cross your T's,
Hide the cries of impossibilities,
Fantasize over all the fantasies,
Climb to the highest point and feel the breeze,
That blows you off into the lake of fire,
In the lake there's many demons for hire,
They will sell you lies that are drugs and booze,
Feels at the top, but game over, you lose,
Still writhing at the bottom of the pit,
Dancing in blood and the phlegm of your spit,
You thought it made you rise but it didn't,
Still below it all and back to question,
"What's the point", lay down the bottle, rest gin,
Tuck it away, you're tucking it to sleep,
As you're woke again, you're back on your feet,
You talk about your problems to people,
Realize their solvable, you're feeble,
When it comes to talking about this stuff,
I want you to hear me, off with your muffs,
The abuse and pain, the love and the wealth,
Talking about this helped me understand myself,
As I continued to talk, the depressive thoughts fleeted,
Now I guess a good listener was all that I needed.