There is a girl in a yellow dress sitting on a bridge.
Her toes are dipping up and down in the water
and she is writing poetry in a spiral-bound notebook.
She isn't any good at poetry,
but she doesn't know that.
She writes of love and loss
and the dark oblivion of life,
of angst and anger
and how everyone strives to be different
in a world where no one is.
Nothing that hasn't been used before.
She isn't any good at poetry.
I don't suppose I am either.