In the notebook of a teenager,
There is often a poem,
Of love or of life,
Or of problems at home.

They might write for hours,
Paper stained with tears,
Releasing emotions,
Confronting fears.

It might be that their life,
Seems to be at it's end,
And their tear-stained notebook,
Is their dearest friend.

There are so many like this,
But they're not all the same,
So many fed up,
With life's sick, twisted game.

So many poems of death and of cutting,
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 treated like dirt.

Some with cuts on their wrists,
Some with cuts in their heart,
Some alone in the crowd,
Some at home in the dark.

Some with friends,
Some with none at all,
Some sitting calmly through the torture,
Some bouncing off the wall.

Together in the darkness,
Alone in the light,
Cannot escape from the madness,
Try as they might.

Jump off a tower,
Stab themselves in the head,
Cry til their eyes burn,
Screaming, "I wish I were dead!"

Listening to their music,
With the volume up high,
Drowning out the anger,
And ignoring the lies.

Sketching dark pictures,
And singing sad songs,
Forgetting the rights,
Remembering the wrongs.

Surviving the heart-ache,
Conquering the rage,
Spilling their hearts out,
Page after page.