The dreams flow on to the paper,
The dreams she would not have.
The dreams she would’ve had later,
If she didn’t end up on a slab.
The cries flow on to the letter,
The letter she was writing,
The letter said she’d be better,
If she had continued living.
The lives she shattered on to the floor,
The lives she always touched,
The lives would have been so much more,
If she had thought so much.
The sorrow she felt as she died,
The sorrow she had to end,
The sorrow was the reason she died,
If only she’d had a friend.
5/20/89