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 [bad word] 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.