Lonely Habbits

Prowling in the darkest of corners,
Something cold and dead,
Yet awake, waiting, knowing,
Everything of importance,
Shattered, deserted,
Alone, quite, disturbed,
Left within a crowd of many,
Only to suffer from nothing,
That attacks when most open,
Revealed, concealed,
Unknowing, yet every things so clear,
Waiting, for life to take its course,
Existence rapidly slowing,
Sitting under the covers,
Remembering those who cared,
About the dreams she never had,
Too many nights were no one was there,
Shaken and destroyed by the fears overcome,
Crushed and forced into this humble life,
Waiting for the street lights to fade away,
So no one will remember her lonely face.

Deticated to one of my friends.

Ian Robert Potapoff