In the note book of a teenager,
there is often a pome,
of love or life,
or a problem at home,
It might be that their life,
seems to be at i's end,
and thir tear stand notebook,
is there dearest friend,
there are so many like this,
but they are all not the same,
so many feed up,
with lifes sick and twisted games,
so many pomes of death and of cuting,
about how hard they try ,
and still amount to nothing,
they're so sick of the pain,
and so sick of the hurt,
so sick of being picked on,
and teated like dirt,
some alone in the crowd,
some at home in the dark,
some with friends,
some with none at all,
some sithing calmly through the trorture,
some bouncing off the walls.