Draft

This night is mysterious
The cold wind is blowing beneath my face
I can't create the perfect words right now
To describe what I'm feeling at this very moment

I'm in my room alone holding a pen so I'm pretending to be doing something
I've come up making this poem...
Across the rivers and down the mountains
Up the hills and over the wild plains
There's a fine stick of ink
Red, blue, black or pink
Whichever color you want to pick
You can choose whether thin or thick
It helps us express
And remove a little stress
To whine a little less
To press or not to press
In this world of chaos and lost keys
Every minute, every second
Every move that I have questioned
Every glimpse is like a potion
I'm liking this pen in every proportion

When you start a conversation
There's no need for negotiations
They call it infatuation
But I don't really need their opinions
So I've come up writing all this things
With a thin sheet of tree
And this small magical piece
You can do it whenever you are free
And even seal it with a kiss

You can make your own story
Or write about "Tita Cory"
And make a letter to a friend
Expressing that you do feel sorry!