As I said from the beginning, I am an angst-ridden, teenage girl. I am the worst of my kind. I fit the stereotypes all too well.
I also said that I am a writer. (Well, I assume I did. If I didn't, I am a writer). Problem solved.
I wrote several poems on you guessed it. Yep. Rob. Well, I mean, this one is probably the most in reference to him. You don't have to read this. It's in my writing journal, and since I call this my diary, I can only feel that it's appropriate to post here. It's hidden from various eyes, and this is exactly what I need.
I haven't titled it yet.
"I never thought
that those songs in the hundreds,
would ever be in reference to me.
My stomach drops seventeen feet.
Time and distance forever separate you,
from me.
My world is a shade of grey.
Those sheer three seconds.
An explosion of colour.
And I'm taken aback.
Things fade to black.
I beg for a way out.
It doesn't feel possible.
The late hours crawling back,
tossing and sobbing.
My whole body is a danger zone.
The epicenter of all m problems.
And it's been so short."
It's not the best I've written. I'll post another after dinner. I'm really hungry. Afterwards I must part with the Internet to re-type my research paper on The Things They Carried. You all know about that, and I'm sure.
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