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Beatrice
Poems
Oct 2010
Lack of repair without help.
and I'd rather sit,
pretend you're still here,
than let any memory of you,
disappear.
Oh it's cold,
and somewhere you are too,
but there's a pill for that.
and a pill for me.
maybe two or three.
We'll see
how many I take
before I'm able to be
me.
sans cold.
sans memories.
We'll see
how many
can you/I will
take
before
I'm/you're
able to be
me/you.
**Tell me it was worth it.
Written by
Beatrice
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Taylor St Onge
and
lorraine
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