I think I hate my poetry, there's a simple reason why, you see, most of my words, I know are wrong, feelings extinguished that live on in song, of girls I've forgotten, and girls who don't care so there's no point to poetry...is there?
Sometimes I sit and write, Poems about you and I, About me and love, and love and sorrow But in the mirror of my heart, I realized they are all about me and I.
The sparrow has turned into a hawk. I will not apologize for learning how to fly, but I will apologize for falling in the garden, trampling over the orchids as I took flight. How is the sparrow supposed to fly, knowing she tore the orchids to shreds?