The music wasn't all that good.
But I didn't notice it that much
because I was lost in the
metaphorical resonances
of listening to a dead man's
favorite music.

It felt wrong,
holding a book while most others
held only tears and a bag of chips.

I wasn't a friend is his, and no.
We weren't related.
I'd never met him in my life
and yet there I stood,
mourning the loss of a man
with apparent terrible music taste.

Moral of the story:
Don't take a poet to the funeral of a man they've never met.

Quoth the Raven...

I found solace in those words,
every day for the past year.
PC, you have been my solace,
my notebook,
my home,
and I can't bring myself to hide this
in poetic confusion
and metaphors.

You,
and everything that you are,
are sinking into the void
that holds only trolls
and phrases that barely pass
as poetry.

Your colors are fading,
no matter how fast
a select few of us
try to paint them back.

God, I'm so sorry I couldn't do more.
I poured my heart and soul
into you, and yet
it wasn't enough.
Why couldn't I be enough?

...

I know that's not fair.
I know you hold so many
beautiful people with beautiful minds.
People who spin feelings
into such perfect words,
people who are slightly
(or more so) insane
but all the best people are.

This was originally a goodbye letter.

But honestly,
I couldn't make myself do it.

Sincerely,
A girl who found a home
in your insanity

You had quite the charm,
pulling yourself into my tree.

Do you really think
every person is unique?

You're not so much like the
character I stated,
other than the romance.

Two years seems longer
than it should be.

It began with me and a fence.

I stood near seminary,
with thoughts more important
than any I've ever had inside.

It seemed at that moment,
that the fence was the only thing between me
and everything.
It seemed that if I didn't cross to the other side,
I'd be doomed to a life of normalcy.

I stayed, obviously.
I can't just get up and leave.

It was your response that made me
realize what I'd leave behind.

You didn't tell me to stay,
you responded one word, remember?
You said "someday."

I noticed a lady sitting across from me today.

See, she had a worn face from living hard, and tough hands from working harder.

And her piercing eyes, they screamed five words:

Don't let me be forgotten.

Isn't it odd how even in the skies,
you occupy my mind?

I have a reason to be happy with
my bad poetry.
The best poetry comes from the
worst of times.