Here's the second poem. Now, a little more fan fictiony then poemy, but the poems are still there. Enjoy!
Poem 2: Blame
Blame it on the killer
Blame it on the knife
Blame it on anyone else
But please don't blame yourself
Blame is such a horrible word
Blame puts you in such pain
Blame can make you lose your mind
Save yours wile you can.
Blame it on the time elapsed
Blame it on the day
But please don't blame anyone else
Blame makes you think you have to pay
Pay for all the things wrong done
Pay for my unjust fate
But if I were to live your life today
I'd pay for nothing but some blue cake
The cake that I will never eat
But can taste in my mouth
But what's done is done, it won't change now
Just because you blame yourself
So blame the music played so loud
Or blame the knife placed on the shelf
But never, in your life will you
Try to blame yourself
She copied the poem again with exquisite penmanship on lovely stationery. She signed it 'By an Old Friend' and folded the letter. She placed it carefully in a baby blue envelope and wrote the name of the recipient in black pen. She called over a white dove perched by the windowsill with a coo not unlike the pigeon's own. It fluttered over and stuck out its scrawny little leg and let her tie it securely.
"You have to take this directly to Carter," she whispered to the bird, "Directly. Make sure he doesn't see you," the dove made no movement to suggest it understood or even knew if she was speaking, but the minute she finished it flew off, over the woods and out of sight.
"Carter, there's a letter for you!" Randi called.
"Really? Who dropped it off?" Carter said, picking up the blue envelope. It had no return address, just the words in black ink: John Carter, in lovely calligraphy.
"Uh, no one, it sort of just... Appeared?" Randi shrugged. Carter rolled his eyes and opened the letter. He walked down the hall, reading the letter at the same time. He read it through twice and stopped in the hall, staring at it.
"Something wrong?" Jing-Mei asked, passing him in the hall.
"Huh? No, no, just this letter... I'm just wondering who sent it..."
"Why?"
"Well, it's a poem..." he handed it to Jing-Mei. She read it through and an enigmatic smile appeared on her face. She returned it to him.
"I have the strangest feeling that... Well, whoever the poet is, they sure know how you're feeling," Jing-Mei interrupted herself. As she began to walk off, Carter called after her.
"Wait, what feeling?" he cried. She turned around, kept walking backwards and shrugged. She turned back around again.
"What feeling?" Carter repeated, his voice writing, walking after her slightly. Jing-Mei stopped and turned to face him. The distance between them was about twelve feet and it was always so loud in the ER, but Carter heard her next words clearly.
"Well, it's just that, if I didn't know better, I'd say that poem was written by someone who knows you well. Someone you taught. Someone who learned a lot from you... Someone who doesn't work hear anymore... Someone like Lucy Knight," at those words, all volume around Carter turned to an absolute minimum. The world seemed to slow and he realized, she was right. He shook his head and the world's speed and noise level rose again.
"Nah," he sighed, and continued with his work.
Poem 2: Blame
Blame it on the killer
Blame it on the knife
Blame it on anyone else
But please don't blame yourself
Blame is such a horrible word
Blame puts you in such pain
Blame can make you lose your mind
Save yours wile you can.
Blame it on the time elapsed
Blame it on the day
But please don't blame anyone else
Blame makes you think you have to pay
Pay for all the things wrong done
Pay for my unjust fate
But if I were to live your life today
I'd pay for nothing but some blue cake
The cake that I will never eat
But can taste in my mouth
But what's done is done, it won't change now
Just because you blame yourself
So blame the music played so loud
Or blame the knife placed on the shelf
But never, in your life will you
Try to blame yourself
She copied the poem again with exquisite penmanship on lovely stationery. She signed it 'By an Old Friend' and folded the letter. She placed it carefully in a baby blue envelope and wrote the name of the recipient in black pen. She called over a white dove perched by the windowsill with a coo not unlike the pigeon's own. It fluttered over and stuck out its scrawny little leg and let her tie it securely.
"You have to take this directly to Carter," she whispered to the bird, "Directly. Make sure he doesn't see you," the dove made no movement to suggest it understood or even knew if she was speaking, but the minute she finished it flew off, over the woods and out of sight.
"Carter, there's a letter for you!" Randi called.
"Really? Who dropped it off?" Carter said, picking up the blue envelope. It had no return address, just the words in black ink: John Carter, in lovely calligraphy.
"Uh, no one, it sort of just... Appeared?" Randi shrugged. Carter rolled his eyes and opened the letter. He walked down the hall, reading the letter at the same time. He read it through twice and stopped in the hall, staring at it.
"Something wrong?" Jing-Mei asked, passing him in the hall.
"Huh? No, no, just this letter... I'm just wondering who sent it..."
"Why?"
"Well, it's a poem..." he handed it to Jing-Mei. She read it through and an enigmatic smile appeared on her face. She returned it to him.
"I have the strangest feeling that... Well, whoever the poet is, they sure know how you're feeling," Jing-Mei interrupted herself. As she began to walk off, Carter called after her.
"Wait, what feeling?" he cried. She turned around, kept walking backwards and shrugged. She turned back around again.
"What feeling?" Carter repeated, his voice writing, walking after her slightly. Jing-Mei stopped and turned to face him. The distance between them was about twelve feet and it was always so loud in the ER, but Carter heard her next words clearly.
"Well, it's just that, if I didn't know better, I'd say that poem was written by someone who knows you well. Someone you taught. Someone who learned a lot from you... Someone who doesn't work hear anymore... Someone like Lucy Knight," at those words, all volume around Carter turned to an absolute minimum. The world seemed to slow and he realized, she was right. He shook his head and the world's speed and noise level rose again.
"Nah," he sighed, and continued with his work.