Bouquet of Your Memoir

There are loathe of scrapes,

she tend to escape.

People watch her fall.

They don't bother to call.

Puncture of growls,

space triggered the haul.

Bothered, covered.

Drowned.

If things are just the same,

before she caught the fame.

Stress that depressed,

suppressed but dressed.

Let the crowd.

Let they and be found,

let they regret.

Just let the death.

The glass, the flowers,

are now her bed.

Buddy, follow the stairs!

You'll be forever, my friend.