You know, i could write fiction out of my story.
Everything, from the people i know, to the things that happened, to the stories told, to my existence.
They seem to be stranger than fiction.
From home, to school, to the places i went, the places i fell in love with.
Waking up every morning thinking if what happened wre real.
Praying all bad things were only nightmares,
And all the good things were dreams people would never want to kiss goodnight.
Maybe we were all created to not exist,
We have to live to make our existence pretty much known.
Hell, maybe i wasn't even supposed to live?
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