and I am so,
sorry for the terrible poesy. The
of creating hasn't quite
left me yet, though it may be in-
did you see what I did
and all you've left is
another layer to dry,
blue over my heart.
you uttered my name
once, months ago, a question
I left unanswered.
the first tragedy:
in two months you'll be gone -
there's really not much point in staying.
she reaches for the
and the night,
by comet-trails and matchstick
We tread in silence, wreaths upon
Gravestones, where you lie amongst
Flowers unpicked, at rest.
I am not a poet.
Who are you to call me one
When all I do is cram out As and
Words that don't mean a thing,
Pretentiousness masked as literature,
Romanticized depression in monochrome.
for this random person in my life