'A Poem Called Untitled'

You hate the things that show,
the dread thick within your sound.
Broken glass will bring your comfort,
the neurotic obsession finally cured.
A devastating blow
to an ego oh-so-high
yet a check of self expectance,
a reliance finally gone.

But now you miss the small things,
things youve forgotten how to feel.
You miss the rain drenching you,
the thunder crashing all around.
The sudden onslaught of its beauty,
the final flash before the end.
it's almost like a repeat,
a redo of things undone.
But you go out with a weird motive,
as if sumthing old will change.
It always does the same thing,
it kill you in the end,
reminds you of your sanity,
reminds you whats within.
But now i guess you've lost it,
you are not fully THERE.
youre somewhere inside hiding,
like a kid running from their fears.

We thought we'd say its useless,
but in truth we really care.
Why else would we write a poem,
called untitled, just for you.
Why else would we say i love you,
if in truth we really didnt.
And why else would we pick up the pieces,
of the reflection you once had.

Devoting yourself to the mirrors,
to watching seconds fly past,
this life you have made and have broken,
still choking on tears that will build.
A series of fortune we'll gamble,
by thinkking you'll take time to read,
a poem called untitled,
the one i wrote just for you.