Dear Random Strangers,
            
Your sideways glances and whispered remarks have been noticed.
What you think has no effect actually means the world.
I would like to ask you...
No...Beg you...
To please stop judging me because of the marks on my wrist,
Allow me the chance to tell you my story,
Before you put the damaged book in the trash.
I know my corners are dog-ear,
Yes some pages are ripped,
And my cover is torn and scratched.
But looks can be deceiving.

Random Stranger, I know we haven't met
But every time one person disregards me,
It becomes more easy to believe I am trash,
And it makes me want to throw myself away...

I could never be a poet,
I don't seem to have a way with words.
They don't flow like a river...
Or come to me on a breeze...
I just stumble upon them,
Purely by mistake.

I could never be a poet,
Because my work is just for me.
Call me selfish...or stupid...
To both I would agree,
Because I seem to spout stupidity,
And I keep it all to me...

I could never be a poet,
My words are not beautiful nor smart,
So I look to you in awe,
Your words drifting along,
Fitting together perfectly...
Because you, my friend, are a Poet.

She sat in that chair by the window,
Watching as life went by.
Hoping to receive the letter,
The letter that never arrived.

She sat in that chair by the window,
Listening to the sounds of life.
Clutching to the hope of the letter,
The letter that never arrived.

She sat in the chair by the window,
With the light fading from her eyes.
She never gave up the hope of the letter,
The letter that never arrived.

As I sat in that chair by the window,
With a tear running from my eye.
I wished I had sent that letter,
The letter that never arrived.