By Quakespears
Real men don’t cry well
I guess I won’t be a man
After these goodbyes
The trees seem heavy
Weighed down with unsaid goodbyes
Miss you already
Owen:
Adieus fester—rot
A cancer brimming; seeping,
Out of lips trembling
Matt:
Comfort, security
Familiar endless days
Only months remain
Try to drown it out
The goodbyes are too close now
I guess farewell town
I don’t want to say
Any more goodbyes to you
They hurt far too much
I’ll Cya Later
My senior Alligators
Be spry guys goodbye
