This poem written by me was written on April 28th. 05 written between 9:45 p.m. and 10:30 p.m., but in German, I translated it earlier with a "Translate". I would be very happy about clerks

One evening, like every different one

In the background music, I runs lies in bed, sits, is to
actually sleep, but is too many thoughts in my head.

If it wants to note, it wants to arrange, but it is their too many.
School, sport, dates ... love of everything is in my head, so many
problems, on which I do not know a solution.

Are sad - and furiously at the same time. But - on whom? My parents?
Teacher? People, which meet me on the road? No, I know completely
exactly: I am debt at my suffering. , but am afraid I want to pain-do
to my body. What am I to do?

I can here only a few of my thoughts to list, one would have her to take
up be able, in order to be able to arrange it - later, if it is too
late. What am I to do?

Find in the Internet almost new friends, but in the normal life?What am
I to do?

Am not falls in love, he white it, I does not want, he wants. Why what
love invented? Only, in order to queal humans? Now did it happen for
the second time, is falls in love, wants with it to be and also not,
wants it to affect and also not, does not want it not to love - or
nevertheless? It is so terrible to be in this dilemma. Still a helped
year ago we were friends, now are he so much more for me, but - I not
for him. What am I to do?

I tried, several times it, but the love is not to be suppressed, it
torments me, I is harried, and does not want it nevertheless at all
to love. My parents say, I would be too young for loving, but ask
myself I: Can one be to young for such a thing? If one cannot
control it, can't one be to young for it nevertheless also, or?
The love is not a torture, only there to torment humans for something
else, I know it. I poured so many tears because of the love, all in
vain. They made the impression larger in me only still that I did notbelong this way - not into this world -.

I died once nearly, was even debt. I times again which to
expenditure-eat and had gotten annoyance. In the evening I sat in bed
and choked myself. Me became hot in the head - nevertheless it made
fun for me. Hectar -, I am moved, who thinks, give I right, but
everything that ran up to now inclined was I debt - or the love, this
torture, which eats my heart, my soul mutilates, and my hand to
the letter induces. But nevertheless it is a torture.

In the background music, which is CD nearly to end, I lies in bed,
sits, runs is to actually sleep, but notes I means thoughts. Directly
I will delete the light, try the book close and to sleeping, but am
too many thoughts in my head. One evening, like every different one.