a poet who had a life one envied
writing , scattering , scribbling
on papers with words only she
can understand

paragraphs unwritten —
only learned-off by mind ;
sick , sitting still , thinking
what life really means

to make a poetry that everyone
can understand , close to home
“hi , grandpa , friends , that i missed
by the bus that i now cannot ride “ .

waiting for the time she can lay down
bed creaking , no friends helping her
go through by the end of this warm summer
glass breaking near the green painted table

so much blood off to something unimaginable
nothing she can endure but the pain
pain in the head only yet exists
is she sad or just fully breaking without friends
by her side ?