Every day for an hour,
She thinks it will help,
But it just makes my mood sour.
I open the door,
A cold wind chills my spine,
Everyone's faces are
Pale, just like mine.
We sit in a circle,
Metal chairs,
Crystal tears,
Share all our problems,
So everyone can hear.
Molly's been diagnosed with two years left,
She's afraid of dying.
Seth has nothing for which he can live,
His life is full of pain and sighing.
After each story, we mumble our prayers.
Our empty, "Things will get better"
And, "Trust us, we care".
When, in reality,
What's the point of trying?
Support groups are really
Just a large group of people lying,
To themselves and to each other,
We know things won't get better.
We don't succeed,
But yet we still try, because
The only way out of suffering
Is to die.
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