Thursday, 28 May 2015


Clueless as hell is she.
He should have stood back, but instead he fell
and he's still falling, the rush of wind 
hitting hard against his face
he's falling head first, into a common place
and the worst of it all, he has no control over the pace
He's constantly creating literature in her name
only his soft bound journal and his ink pen really know of her fame
he's never admired anyone the same
He wrote each day with just one aim
to gift her this little diary one day, anonymously,
covered with her name
He wrote like every day was his last
he wrote of how he wishes she was his future,
even though they didn't have a past
And all the while he wrote of her
She had no clue, he was sure.
This writer died a sudden death
young and wity, he was called up to Heaven city
His old journal was found,
and the word went around
of a woman who's praises he wrote about
but who she was, they never figured out.
Now his book stands proud on shelves everywhere
in bold letters on the cover 'The Woman With Brown Hair".
She picked up his book while browsing the shelves one day
and the day she read the last page, she closed the book,
hugged it to a chest, shut her eyes and let the brimming tears fall astray.
And said 'I wish someone would write about me this way'
Clueless she stayed

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