as the days go by i feel smaller and smaller and suicide seems more appealing. every day i feel like dying and every night i die, in a way. the only thing that keeps me hanging is my poetry. nothing else. not my girlfriend, not my soon-to-be-born baby boy, nor my friends and family. i feel like i got nowhere to go, i’m trapped inside this hellish reality and i don’t have the mental strength to break through it. i would’ve probably kill myself if my poetry was already published, but it’s not. hence i won’t kill myself. not until my words will light the world’s eyes. that’s all i want. after that, well, who knows?