There are some people out there that have wanted to **** themselves for some time now.
And there are some who have bled blood from their bodies to drown out the tears.

There are some people out there who were once the brave ones.
The cool kids.
The strong warriors.

These people, they were once dreamers.
Who are now haunted by nightmares.

These people, they were once believers.
Who are now wearing the handprint of life bitchslapping them in the face.

These people, they were once fearless.
And now fear is the only thing they want less of.

But these people, they haven’t given up yet.

These people fight every day to better themselves.
They fight to be strong once again.

These people haven’t ended it all, even though they feel like the world is pushing them to.
They haven’t given up.
They haven’ killed themselves.

But that’s not something you can brag about at fancy parties.

I either write when I'm in love or in pain.

So call me the constant writer.

But be not afraid when you see my poems drenched in blood,

For they are all like that.

Because I only write when I'm in love or in pain,

And for me those are the same.

Have you ever had those days that just ******?
Those days that were just terrible and you have no idea why.
Why they are bad, why it's happening to you and why does it keep getting worse?
You just constantly ask: why?

Why do we have bad days?
Are bad days a type of requirement to living?
Do we have to experience bad days?

And why the hell do I experience them day after **** day?

For the past few months I've had bad days.
My days are like, real bad.
As bad as criminals locked away in the world's deepest prisons.
As bad as lying in court, or swearing in church, or sleeping with your neigbor.
Well, maybe not the last part, because if that was what I was comparing my bad days too, at least I'd be getting lucky in some sort of way.

My days are terrible.
I have chronic anxiety, top that with separation from my loving family, add in being a freshman in college, make sure you include dealing with the death of my mother, and top it all off with just a general sense of feeling alone.
This is what my bad days are like.

My bad days are horrible.
They make me feel sad.
And lonely.
And depressed.
And at times I think my heart actually hurts.
I can feel the physical pain in my chest.
It's like no matter where I turn or what I do, I can't find anything to help me.
From kids laughing, to girls being in a relationship with someone else,
(Like seriously, every girl is with someone),
All the way to knowing I lost my best friend when my mother passed away.

What can I do to get away from these bad days?

I go home, exhausted after each day of bad.
I breathe heavy not only from the long walks of this college campus, but the burden that surrounds my heart.
I just cry now.
It just escapes my eyes and my soul.

I eventually end up all alone, like usual.

And all I do is think to myself:

"Man, I've had a bad day."

And then I just say to myself:

*"Man, I've had a bad life."

I'm afraid the only time you and I, my dear, will ever be together,

Is right here in this poem.

And if that doesn't make me want to bleed blood from my wrists all over this paper instead of words from my mouth,

I don't know what will.

I guess I'm just one of those "lovesick, pathetic, try-too-hard's."

The one who uses their prayers to pray for you.

The one who uses their 11:11 wishes to wish for you.

The one who picks eyelashes from their crying eyes to hope and beg for you.

I guess I'm just one of those lovesick, pathetic, try-too-hard's.

Just hoping to be with you.

But having to face the harsh reality that people like me only end up with people like you,

In poems like this.

The world is only as big as it reaches.
And yes, my children, it reaches pretty far.
It's filled with millions and millions of faces just wishing to attain fame.
They want more and more of it and they need it now.
But then there are those who don't know their purpose.
They feel like they can't fit in in this far reaching world.
They are the sould dressed in black, not because they are sad.
But because they are absent.
They feel like day after day after **** day they are going down like the Titanic.
But at least the Titanic drew money.
These souls, they are left to suffer under shadows of vultures.
They don't own a mirror because they don't want to look at themselves in it anyway.
Because they're afraid if they do, they'll see what they look like.
They'll see what people see.
The disgust, the patheticness, the nerd, the goth, the dork, the ****,
The in pain.
The insane.
The mental game.
They are all taking their tolls.
But where are these people to go?
How are they to know?
How were they to know that a disorder known as bipolar would result in bringing a blade to their wrists or a noose to their throats?
Their screams can't be heard because they're being cut off by the noose.
They try so hard to escape from this far reaching world.
But they can never escape this lie we're living in.
They scratch and claw at the door like a cat wanting milk.
Because that cat had a bad day at cat school and he just wants to come back to his cat home and drink his cat milk.
And then cry himself to sleep.
And as the cat sleeps he'll have his cat dreams.
He'll dream of one day becoming top cat,  sly cat, papa cat, and even the cat's pajamas.
He'll dream of one day when he can stroll down to the corner trashcan without being harassed by the big dog names Spike from down the street.
He'll dream of mice and how things aren't nice and about his dinner, rice.
But then his dreams turn into nightmares.
Like a 50 year old losing his hair.
Or like your spouse declaring they just don't care.
They've given up.
But suddenly you awaken hearing your cat crying in the night.
And you run to him and pick him up, assuring him that he is not alone.
And it is then that you catch yourself in the hallway mirror.
You see who you are for the first time.
You see yourself, and also a dark cloud.
It's that dark cloud of denial hanging over your head.
But you also see your cat in your arms.
And you are suddenly reminded that you are not alone in this far reaching world.
This far reaching world would be alone without you.
So my children, my black wearing souls.
Pour yourself some milk and cry yourself to sleep.
But when you awaken, remember your dreams.
Put them in a file and label it "Hope."

And when you feel that you are alone at the end of this far reaching world, remember,

You're the cat's pajamas.

You are a beautiful angel.
Flying ever so high.
And you don't want to soar too close to the ground,
For soon you will have to fly away,

Just like all the other angels.

And it's a miserable reality that I am here on the ground.
Way down here at the bottom.

And all I want is to be desperately saved.