Literature
This is.
Black nail polish,
Hair over one eye.
Ripped jeans, kind of smallish,
Nothing but a sigh.
Sorrowful music at a deafening tone,
Heard far into the distance.
Piles of poems about being alone,
A seemingly meaningless existance.
Late night phone calls,
Endless questions.
Overjoyed when rain falls,
Silent suggestions.
Dreams of times to come,
Thinking of how they could be better.
Gift of a pink chrysanthemum,
It's my love letter.