All that's left of me | Writer & Author Teresa Little
Sitting here picking flowers I whittle away the hours Another day of dusk till dawn Restless sleep and waking yawns Reaching for what is not there Nothing to hold, you left me bare. So I sit at night on grass and dew Trying not to cry and stew As I hide here in the dark Waiting for death to hit his mark Change this setting, change the sun This realism is a bullet in the gun.