Setting:
One bedroom apartment, run down
Hasn't been cleaned for months
Leaning back on a three legged couch
Chain smoking at 7PM with the sun setting
Through the black out curtains pinned to the wall
With some edgy alt-pop ******* on shuffle.
Dagger in hand questioning what is real and what is fake.
What makes a person? Their name? Their past, their presence?
Who will I be known as when I pass
Will they mourn the sulking writer who drank and smoked her life away?
Will they lay to rest the prepubescent drama queen and avid book enthusiast?
Or will they bury the dreams of this girl possibly pulling herself together to make something great.