• There she sits, on her own.
    Back pressed against the cold grey stone,
    Sobbing softly, sweetest tears,
    For as she cries,no one hears.
    How can you love a man,
    Who isn't there to grasp your hand?
    How can you share your thoughts,
    When what was once love, dies and rots.
    The shrill scream rides through the night,
    About how nothings going right.
    He does not hear her.
    He does not see her.
    He does not hold her.
    He does not care.
    He is not there.
    He is that of what faries and folklore are made.
    In her hand a daist rests,
    Pettals folling as she tests,
    His love on chance and even less.
    He loves me, He loves me not,
    Blood red petal, he loves her not.
    Shlashed wrists, bleeding hearts,
    The world around her far too dark.
    Wishing she knew for sure,
    That his love was more than just a blur.
    Whining, whimpering, nails to skin,
    Can no one see what pain she's in?
    He does not hear her.
    He does not see her.
    He does not hold her.
    He does not care.
    He is not there.
    He is that of which faries and folklore are made.
    Holding on she waits and prays,
    Quietly waiting for the days.
    When he should grace her with his words,
    WHen she can listen to the singing birds.
    The bright lit world, a gentle touch,
    But this dear reader not enough.
    Inside she dies, a little more,
    Inside she feels extreemly sore.
    Still she smiles for him,
    Still she's die for him,
    Inside she screams because of him.
    He does not hear her.
    He does not see her.
    He does not hold her.
    He does not care.
    He is not there.
    He is that of which faries and folklore are made.