Standing in a crowded room, Knowing everyone and no one.
A solitary individual; sense of impending doom.
I realise my connections
Are empty, shallow, false.
I see, in their eyes, small mirrors and woeful reflections.
Reflecting these emotions
And despite my inner pain,
I see; We all share mixed up notions:

That loneliness is for the alone.

The other day I showed my mom my poems
"Why do you always write sad poems? Write happy." She says
I just nodded, but I couldn't tell her my code of secrecy.
I write so I can let all the pain go
The pain of yesterday
and the reason that was was that I didn't have anybody when I moved
Everybody was occupied
And on my first day of school, I ruined everything
my words were spoken in clumps
and my pen was my only companion
So I wrote
wrote like the ink was my blood and paper my skin
and poetry accepted my request of being a friend
now my poems act as a mentor and a tutor
I can't give up writing sad poems
because if I do,
I'll lose yesterday

A small. Soft. Sad little ball.
Turning your eyes up to meet mine,
the only movement you make.
Too frail.

Your sandpapery nose
Breathes a ghostly breath.
Your last icy kiss.
Too frail.

Little restless tail lays still,
Yearning to twitch with excitement not pain.
It’s your last day I think.
Too frail.

The vet said it’s rare.
The body that housed you
Is letting you down.
It’s too soon for this.
Too Young.

I love you so much.
My heart.
In pain.
It’s my last chance to hold you.
Sleep well.

Sprightly and lightly it danced to your window
In the breeze which caught it
and brought it
To sweetly kiss your silken pillow.
To neatly place itself unseen
Amidst your longest deepest slumber
And carefully corrupt your dreams.