Rhyming poem about death. It may be a bit disorganized, but all feedback is appreciated.
|The purse full of lipsticks she never wears.
The misplaced ribbons and undone hair.
She makes eye contact, but it's just dead stares.
She's the girl who loves, but never really cares.
She's hard to love, but it's even harder to bear,
When she leaves you standing in the cold, lonely air.
So you pull at your shirt, and you comb your mane.
Just so she won't think you're insane,
By the way you look, so tired and plain.
She thinks you're crazy the way you walk through the rain,
To kiss her heart and taste her pain.
You know it does you no good, but you try all the same.
You want a happy ending, a fairy tale,
But you're standing alone, growing cold and pale.
She doesn't answer the phone, she doesn't take in the mail.
Her beach clothes by the door, with her bucket and pail.
People say she got sick of life, because all she did was fail.
Her plants have rotted, her bread's gone stale
And all her hopes and dreams, as dead as a nail.
And so too is she, like her sweet desires, dead.
All because the problems she made in her head.