Transcribing Dreams into Poetry is a particularly fruitless and idiotic exercise.

She sat there, On the old, well worn wooden floor, Drawing, day after day, Cheap white paint was chipping off the walls. She felt like the world was so empty, After moving to the desecrated city of Philadelphia, Her cheap, old, apartment, Grew to encompass her entire Universe, The streetlights would often fail to shine, Outside her windows, As a matter of fact, The view from inside was of complete Darkness, There was nothing but a deep black abyss outside, No matter how hard she tried to look through the window, There was nothing to be seen, No reason to leave, Just keep drawing, on the floor. She drew ghastly pictures, And I asked her if she had seen ghosts, She said she hadn't, They were images of our past, at most, She was strange, And she was different from the rest of us, She laid in an oddly dark world, Unforgiving, I miss her so much.