I drive by your house It's still the same as before The inside is still beaten down And your room is like a picture I wonder if she still hates you Makes you do the things that you don't want to do I wonder if he's still around Hating to you Where is he now again? Did he run away to the end? Knowing that he's sick And fucking twisted of you Singing the song again And he's still your savior Abandon you twice more And he's still your hero Once again I say. I still think that you remind me of him The things you did And the suffering Now I know how you felt The day he left again This is your mistake now For being as insane as you are Where is he now again? Did he run away to the end? Knowing that he's sick And fucking twisted of you And you know that i'm... Singing the song again And he's still your savior Abandon you twice more And he's still your hero Once again I say. Your leaving Me out And he's leaving You again I'm leaving You behind And you hope that she leaves too.
So, I was hunting for new poems in Writer's Cove, and I noticed this. And then I said, "Y'know what, I think I'll comment on Friskey's poem, and leave out the cookie, to see if he'll notice." The point of that story was that some stories have no point. Your poem was not one of those things. This is beautiful. ^ Was my favourite part.
contrary to mali, i think the poem had an unsaid story. it had an underlying background. it had a home, but somewhere in the woods, where someone can only percieve it's presence but be unsure about it's existence. simple and brilliant...