I spied a letter lying crinkled on the floor. The ink had ran and blurred from the rain just moments before, but I squinted and blinked to read the runny ink, to read a poem that would surely make me think.
'And when I sleep, I'm still awake, I dream lying with eyes open for nine hours straight. And when the sun arises and the morning dews erased I tread lightly like a ghost waiting for my grave. When I'm old, I can't wait till I am old, so that when I sleep well I'll dream with, with my eyes closed.
With my eyes closed I'll picture a life I lead, past regrets and past sadness toying with my head.'
And I can't forget. And I can't close my eyes. I cannot wait till I am old, Till The day I finally die. And oh paper, You tore right through me. Never have I ever seen anything to describe, The exact way I feel and the exact way I live my life. And I wonder, what person out there, could write this way? Oh and it was me, I wrote this here, 5 years to this day. Five years and my head still hangs in shame.