ARCHIVE (Click out of poem to close it) My life is meaningless. I don't know why I'm here. I don't feel okay. The only thing I know is that I'm still here, and that's what counts. The only things that are in this b̷̢̭̻͈͙̳̜̥͇̓̾̐͛̐̓͌͋͛̒̈́͘̚͝l̷̡̜͓̣̤̹̺̜̰̭͗͆̔̀͗͑̔͗͒̋̇̑̕͝á̵͎̓̀̓̂͛̌̎ņ̴̢̳̺̤̭̺̙̮̅́͂̓̇͑́͊̿̕̕͜ķ̶̰̘̟̩̰͚͖͗̀̔̊͋̐͘̚͜͠ͅ ̶̢̢̙͕̞͉̮̄̈̌͜v̵̧̛̫̩͉̩̺̫͕̩̣̦̖̖̯͇̔͒̑͌̐͂̈́͆̔̅̇̓͘͠ơ̵̡̲̫̺̠͓̣̍͌̌͋̅̿̂̕͝ͅi̶͓͓̰͍̹̠̭̞̻͎̒͆̚͜͝ͅͅd̵̛̝̪͈̝͕͛̈́͌̓͗̾͆́ is a pencil and some paper. So I wrote a poem of my understanding, like a diary. It doesn't feel right to be here though.
Pip for nothing Pip is helpless
