Edge.

I'm not really sure why I made this plip. I just did. I don't like the style, rhyme, or meaning... but I figured I should post it anyway.

We all sit at the table's edge,

Crying, laughing, and feeling dead.

The food then comes to each our plates,

The next step in our dinner dates.

We flirt and talk and chat all night,

But careful not to miss our flight.

Then we start to run, fast and quick,

Before we fall for our hearts trick.

The next step in this web of lies,

Is to find out where hearts will die.

This poem means nothing to you.

Read it and weep. Or don't. All you.

You won't ever know what we feel.

Except when you're the one who's real

Author's Note

Tear it apart, plip.