THE PHONE CALL

A lonely tear she sheds, sitting in the floor.
She wipes her eyes, saying, "No more, no more."
But she knows it's not the end; it still hurts,
looking at herself, she is less than dirt.
Why can't this poor girl seem to make any friends?
Why does she get only herself, angry winds?
Winds of harsh, bitter words, taunting herself:
"You're evil! Put your feelings on the shelf!"
The voices taunt, but she does deserve them.
She needs help, so she cries out on a whim;
reaching downward, she thinks of who is there,
But the phone rings, and she knows someone cares.

I'm tired of this one; let me read more!

I'm sick of poetry; take me home!