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Array
(
[sid] => 33738
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Her Diary
[time] => 2004-02-03 23:29:33
[hometext] => Being kind one second to you, could mean a lifetime to another.
[bodytext] => It was the day after her death. I needed to know why. Cleaning up her room I found, her diary in crimson bound, and I sat down to cry. The pages started out with pain, and suffering she knew. She cried everynight to death, to kill her until nothing was left. For so long he never came through. Her mother was a rampant whore. Her father drank all day. Things I knew never about her, and now unfortunately, I'm sure, why it had to happen that way. Why she wanted me to be here, I did not understand. Then I came across the page, that started out with my name, and I read it with trembling hands. In her words she knew that I, never was her friend. But I gave her back her bag, when everyone called her a hag, and got their torments to end. "In the third grade at lunch, you sat with me to chat. Everyone called me names, but you never joined their games, or stabbed me in the back. I never had a decent friend, but you were as close as they came. Thank you for not being mean. Thanks for putting me on your team. But I had to end my pain." Tears were flowing down my cheeks, and I put the diary to the side. I'll put it on her grave, where finally she feels no pain, after committing suicide. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 230 [topic] => 52 [informant] => Jazz [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => goodbyepoetry )
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