A phonecall, or two, the sound of her voice
Is all that I need to make myself smile.
But tears prick my eyes, though not of my choice
As I count the days that make up a while.
A stanza, or two, a verse of my own.
Created by me, inspired by her.
A muse to my spoken, romantic tone,
Blissfully unaware of her own power.
She knows her good points, yet knows them not all,
For she sees not her, but someone less fine.
*the subject box isn't long enough for the title of the poem. The title is: Probably The Most Depressing Poem In The World. But Then Again, It Was Written On A Suicidal Day. Or At Least, The Morning After A Suicidal Day.*
I don't know why I'm crying.
I don't know why I scream.
I don't know why the scars are there.
I don't know why I bleed.
My life is just on long regret
I wish would just be over.
I usually stand as the girl with no name,
No presence, no opinion, they allow me to fade
Away into the background whilst I look upon
The figures around me. I'll sit there and long
To be more than a collegue, acquaintance, a ghost.
And wish I could be just that little bit closer
To one or another, whoever it is
That drives me to wake up and get up and live
Alongside and among all these people I see,
When I stare at a mirror in an empty room,
I see her staring back at me.
When I sit alone with only a piano as my companion,
I hear him playing back to me...