Existential Crisis

These bags that hang underneath my eyes,
They aren't those left by long hours of study,
Nor are they traces of an intricate mind.
They are merely signs left behind by my terrible habit,
Of self-loathing, unhappiness and
Unintelligence.

Am I that person,
Who doesn't believe that he is meant only for the ordinary,
And yet, should,
For if he does not,
He'll sink so far down,
That he'll drown beneath the very ordinary life,
That he could have had?

I've been venturing these jungles for quite some time.
I've been surrounded by beauty,
But there is not time for that.
Only time to be wary, to be unsure,
And to be alone.

I'll share a secret with you.
Sometimes I dream about the attention I'd get,
If I simply blew my brains out.
Two birds, one stone,
my head, one bullet.

I'd get some sort of a limelight,
Whilst vanquishing the demons,
That fill my head, and swim in the bags,
Beneath my tired eyes.

Of course, I wouldn't be able to obtain a gun,
So that's not an option.
Unhappiness,
Unbelonging,
Irrevocable sadness.

I apologise for the melancholy post,
It is but  a melancholy night,
And with this last stanza I say goodnight.
But I will not sleep,
It just wouldn't be right.