A Cliche

It's a cliché; my life is getting old.
People are beginning to tire of my cries for help,
My cack-handed attempts at suicide:
Even the Samaritans don't bother to get back to me.
The day in hand is getting out of hand,
And I concede, I admit: I am keeping myself sick;
My veins a noose with which to hang myself, strands
Of silent screaming, muted replies:

Inevitable, I suppose. I stole the God's fire
Without thinking; stood up like a nail
Just to be knocked down. And yet another cliché:
What you take, you give back in kind:

So here, you will find: the lousy life that you gave me
And a liftetime of misery repaid in kind.