I once wrote a poem, about who I wanted to be,
A happy person, who loved new things,
My first grade teacher, gave me an A,
And my Grandma put it on her wall right away.

A third grade poem, about what life meant to me,
Was one of the last, that meant a thing to me.
Life was this happy thing, and should always be,
I got a A. And my grandma hung it on her wall for me.

I'm writing a poem, about the girl I used to be,
Not mad, and angry, I'm young and care-free.
This poem is strange, and doesn't make sense,
But I just keep thinking, my life didn't use to be a mess.

Nobody read my new poem, so I gave myself an A,
then a slash on each wrist, to make the bad go away,
The blood poured out, my poem turned red,
Then I read it to my Grandma, even though she was dead.