I see folded up papers in my bag,
I unfold them just one at a time,
To read what I had said.
Some not poems nor notes,
Just something I wrote.

I sat there, lying in my bed,
Looking up at my ceiling,
Wondering, 'What have I done bad?'

When I write in my book,
I get dirty looks,
What for? I don't know.
Then I lie on my side,
Wondering, 'What have I done bad?'

You think you know me,
You give me dirty looks,
But the questions are...

Can you see what I see?
Can you do what I do?
No, No, No!...
No you can't!

Because......
You're not me...............

06/28/2009

Posted on 11/05/2010
Copyright © 2024 Rebecca Bowen