A Treasury of Poems By an Old Friend
Summary: A small collection of ER poetry by a writer whose work will never be published due to her 'disability'. Who is she, you ask? I made the mistake of mentioning her name, once, but you'd have known anyway... Difficult to summarize so just R/R!
A/N: Look, this is another weird fic of mine (but aren't they all?) and again, I still think it's worth putting up.
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Poem One: Too Young
My parents always told me
I was too young to play at night.
"Don't go out alone," they'd say
"You'll give yourself a terrible fright!"
But then, I went out anyway
And had myself some fun
Me afraid of the bogeyman?
I was seven; did they think I was one?
My parents always told me
I was too young to have fun.
"You can't go out tonight!" they'd say
"Your just way too young!"
But then, I'd go out anyway
And I was left unharmed
Too young to go out alone, HA!
But maybe I was wrong.
My supervisor always said
I was too young to do things yet
"Sorry, maybe later," he'd say
I was just his pet.
But to him I listened
Him I did admire
I hoped someday to be like him
My one true desire
And so I tried to do things right
And finally came the day
Then, I took a patient, Paul Sobriki
But something got in the way
I was concerned he wasn't well
And told Carter my suspicions
"Don't worry, Luce, you can handle it,"
That day ended my ambitions
It ended my whole life in fact
For Mr. Sobriki stabbed me
They tried very hard to save us
But no more my future could I see
Must've been too young
To play out side at night
But sometimes, I really wonder
Can you be too young to die?
She put the pen down and stared at her writing. She smiled with satisfaction, but still knowing her work would never be published. She sighed. She wished her poems could be happier, but her heart was filled with sadness. Perhaps she could get the idea into a young writer's head and have them write it for her... Put it up on a web site or something... Maybe. And then, maybe somehow, John Carter would see her work. Her beloved John. She wished he was doing well, but knew better. Maybe her next piece could reach out to him. And maybe, just maybe, then he'd understand. And so, she tossed back her long blond hair and put the manuscript in a drawer with the rest of her treasured poems.
Summary: A small collection of ER poetry by a writer whose work will never be published due to her 'disability'. Who is she, you ask? I made the mistake of mentioning her name, once, but you'd have known anyway... Difficult to summarize so just R/R!
A/N: Look, this is another weird fic of mine (but aren't they all?) and again, I still think it's worth putting up.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Poem One: Too Young
My parents always told me
I was too young to play at night.
"Don't go out alone," they'd say
"You'll give yourself a terrible fright!"
But then, I went out anyway
And had myself some fun
Me afraid of the bogeyman?
I was seven; did they think I was one?
My parents always told me
I was too young to have fun.
"You can't go out tonight!" they'd say
"Your just way too young!"
But then, I'd go out anyway
And I was left unharmed
Too young to go out alone, HA!
But maybe I was wrong.
My supervisor always said
I was too young to do things yet
"Sorry, maybe later," he'd say
I was just his pet.
But to him I listened
Him I did admire
I hoped someday to be like him
My one true desire
And so I tried to do things right
And finally came the day
Then, I took a patient, Paul Sobriki
But something got in the way
I was concerned he wasn't well
And told Carter my suspicions
"Don't worry, Luce, you can handle it,"
That day ended my ambitions
It ended my whole life in fact
For Mr. Sobriki stabbed me
They tried very hard to save us
But no more my future could I see
Must've been too young
To play out side at night
But sometimes, I really wonder
Can you be too young to die?
She put the pen down and stared at her writing. She smiled with satisfaction, but still knowing her work would never be published. She sighed. She wished her poems could be happier, but her heart was filled with sadness. Perhaps she could get the idea into a young writer's head and have them write it for her... Put it up on a web site or something... Maybe. And then, maybe somehow, John Carter would see her work. Her beloved John. She wished he was doing well, but knew better. Maybe her next piece could reach out to him. And maybe, just maybe, then he'd understand. And so, she tossed back her long blond hair and put the manuscript in a drawer with the rest of her treasured poems.