The lady in the rafters
Though her image was slight,
She knew every string
And heard angels every night

Each board was her fortress
Every fracture, her eye
She knew she could either stay here or die

Yes, her world was an attic
Forgotten  by many
Except for the strings
With their love notes heavy

The cold was her blanket
With the fire outside
And the stars always watching
And the birds by her side

The lady in the rafters
Her heart ever light
Hearing truths in her slumber
And angels every night

My dear Madame manager,
When you walked in the room,
you saw we went hostile
on the company balloons.
I'm sorry to say
It wasn't so funny
Costing a dollar
And $0.10 worth in money.
We didn't mean harm
in picking on you.
Even though it was fun,
we acted like poo.
And so, I apologize
for pranking at large.
You're a wolf among weasels.
Glad I'm not in charge.

I was 21 when I realized my poetry wasn't very good. I kept writing because my longing to create something beautiful wouldn't let me quit my attempt. Pretentious to imagine that I could, bad verses continued to flow as the monster that is my own mind allowed itself to think so. I tried to play God with words only to be disappointed in my mortality. And when I awoke from my illusion, I watched the world get confused and it was alright this time. We write not to create a masterpiece, but because our souls are masterpieces themselves.