I want to meet those poor children
Who felt just like me at times.
I want to know if the pain still burns
And if they would read my rhymes.

I want to know if there was no choice...
If living felt like the way I feel.
I want to hear them tell me, "it's ok,"
That there is hope... still.

I want to see their pale faces,
I want to see their bloody wrists.
I want them to haunt me at night
And push me towards the light- with their fists.

I want to hear their stories.
I want them to make me cry...
And wonder how long do I have
'Til the day comes... when I die.