fail, fail, fail

i fail at life. i fail at crew, i fail at every relationship I've ever been in, i fail at school, i fail with my friends, i fail to care about almost anyone but myself in life, i fail to actually practice guitar, i fail to follow through with most of my goals, i fail to make any new relationships, i fail to impress anyone when i need to, and i fail to change any of that.

my whole life so far feels like a complete failure. i didn't get anything for my mom for mothers day, cuz i didn't think to, i didn't do anything for her. i even succeeded at making her cry, because i failed to be in a good enough mood to talk to her (i ended up talking to her, and that's when i noticed she was crying). of all people my mom deserves a whole lot from me, and i blew her off, just as i did school, just as i did actually giving any serious effort into anything that i do. all I've succeeded at doing is block everyone that's close to me out of my life, become so asocial that my friends really don't know me. all I've done is crash what pathetic life i had into the ground, and i have no idea how to get back up. I hate myself even more because i have the potential to do very well. for example, my English grade last quarter was a 79.

The Rifle

An explosion,
a warming release,
a noise
and a shocking effect.
Like the snapping of a branch,
deep in the woods,
when all around the trees,
silence rests heavy.
And shattered instantly,
by the pollution of the air,
smoking and hot,
The exhausted shell falls.
As the bolt rushes forward,
and locks the next in place,
ready to be released,
prime to explode.
"BANG!" another branch snaps,
another target destroyed,
like the cracking of a heart,
or biting of fierce grief.
Hanging heavy and sharp,
the pain doesn't subside,
the alarm never falters,
As the quiet heaven falls.
It lands with artistic timing,
sounding with the shell,
the snapping branch,
and the shattering heart.
Spent and washed dry,
cooked off without reason,
the final shell falls,
and the last piece breaks.
Clattering to the ground,
dropped from cold hands,
dripping with ripe guilt,
the Rifle falls.

(I got a 95% on this poem, only because i forgot underline all the poetic devices i used. )
I feel so pathetic right now. And again i find myself asking the final question; why the hell am i alive?