Note to self: crying doesn’t make you weak
My fingers are poor, no words of wit
will come from their battered tips
or their fragile, cracking bones;
my mind is flawed with foolish, modern artistry
as I scribble in uncertainty words of cheap ink -
all that remains changed are my beliefs
to form and shape the perfect piece of poetry.
Sometimes I can see
through peoples lies easily
and it makes me sick.
please stop asking me about my future ill cry
do thoughts of me
ever cross you mind
like you do to mine?
I hope so.