Good days,
I think,
Come more often,
Now.
But maybe,
Maybe,
They are still,
Bad days.
What makes,
A day,
Good,
Or,
Bad?
A lot.
Maybe,
My days,
Are half,
And half.
Maybe,
My life,
Is good,
And bad.
Maybe,
I want,
To live,
And,
To die.
Maybe,
I wish,
I could,
Make up,
My mind.
Maybe,
I will,
Tell my mom,
That I have,
Been having,
Good days.
Is it,
A lie,
If I,
Can not,
Make up,
My mind?
YOU ARE READING
Peaceful Darkness
PoetryCollection of depressing poetry This is my story. My life laid out for you. Take from it what you will. This story is CONTINUED in "When The Sun Rises You May Ne Burned "
