A Poem
She is a poem. She was titled Melissa but is called Missy for short. She was written on August 7 at 5:57 a.m. She has been aging for fifteen years. Her pages are yellowing and the corners are curling, slowly but surely. She writes her own poems and stories and isn't afraid to show them. She feels alone in this world, though she's surrounded by many friends. Dani, Jess, Steph, Mary, Nicole, Pat, Brendan, Dave, Tiffani, Ash, Zander. But can they say they actually know this poet?
Read between the lines and the emotions that are all laid out for you, so easily. I'm misunderstood. My plot seems so easy to understand yet time and time again, you're falling slowly away from me because you can't seem to understand this perturbed mind of mine. These words are my soul. These stories are my own.There is so much behind my poetry that I can never show. It is the emotion, the tears, the truth, and the pain behind each word. Sometimes it makes life so unbearable that I want to cut the threads that bind my life together. These words string me as a whole. The poems are the strength behind the threads. I can be strong and it seems as though you don't want me to be. But I will and I am and nothing you will ever say can ever bring me down. So cut my threads with your sharp nails, scratch me hard and make me bleed. I won't care. As long as I have the strength to write, I will never fall.
Does it even matter to you?
Endless Moonlight Wandering
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