I waited year after year,
Wishing my dad would come see...

He walks her home one day a week,
Saying the same thing.. Only repeats...

Theres a place far from here
where I used to go...

What is it with me today?
Words long forgotten are now in full swing...

Around and around in a circle I go,
Once again (as always) I'm confused...

Some people write better when they're depressed,
When their emotions arent so supressed...

I don't know what I feel,
I can barely breathe...

How does one tell,
Secrets kept dear...

This is something that really happened to me. This...
As I sit back and type up this story, I'm going...

This is a story, not a poem. Its for Creative...
His hands were thick, his fingers big and beefy...

She cried all night,
Needing love...

What is it in this time?
In this place...