The Poems I Wrote In My Leather Journal

Thoughts of a Sunday night

But that's what I do, isn't it?

Plat hope in my little garden,

 and sprinkle it with my golden watering can. 

I get high off the smell of pollen, 

and it makes me miss you. 

I wish I could love as real people do, 

but I always write in the dark of all the feelings I cannot change.

I wish to never fall in love again,

but then I think of a person I've never met, 

and I wish our house would smell of cigarettes and coffee grounds,

and a little lavender too- or maybe I'm just having seasonal depression.

Because I'm missing someone I hate and daydreaming of a love I have yet to feel.

I want to plant flowers in my garden but it's too cold outside and it's covered in white powder, 

and I'm so tired of shoveling because it turns my nose red. 

I don't know if I am sick with a cold,

or just sick of being alone. 

belle