If I wasn't depressed, dear bestfriend, I would've Smiled
For you and your lover, write Alliterations of your easy ventures,
And wondrous Rhymes of your lovely dances, Sketched
Your parades to the seven heavens; I would, I'm sure.
Behold myself, the Laurel that wrote my pulse, Flew
Away as your shadow, Seek of you as if an addict for drug,
I cannot compare the ache that stayed, still new
But how I wish I've met her first, for she's be my Pain's Dew.
Dear bestfriend, now I jot down series of mellow reveries;
O Hades, for Persephone, the Old Greens Stumbled, Sweet Ocean
Bittered, Soul Lost out their Host. I've Frost the Life with my cold Winter Heart.
But alas these reveries mangled, sighed the melodies
Of your lips- No, no, don't cast me to Lethe, dear bestfriend.
I shall sing of your tales again; with all my miserable lark heart.
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this is what happens when you read too much keats while having emotional problems
