poetry++

I do not like what's in my head.
I lay here... the grass is my bed.
I do not rest, nor tears I shed.
I hate myself. I feel so sad.

The colour blue, it rhymes with you.
The more I think, the more i do.
The things this notebook follows through.
The name, the song, the feeling blue.

So quiet whispers wind to me.
So is he cold, won't let me be.
So he insists that I should see.
So is the world, so I need "we".