Quirk

Love it when I'm fine and flying high.
And then some words, shoot me out the sky.
I crash land.
And splash in the sand.
Slash with my hand.
Not left with a strand.
Of hope.
So I moap.
And my throat.
Grows tight.
This just might.
Be the last night.
I give up the fight.
Wont take flight.
Yes, oh, right.
Leave me here.
Lying on the ground.
Don't feel sad.
My heart don't pound.
It's better to be cold, and feel nothing.
Than get hopes up, but never win.
-H