As I write you this last letter
Underneath our cloudy weather
A tear as soft as feathers
I don't feel that much better
In our modern age of typing
Not as effective as a sighting
Our fingers move as much as swiping
While our bodies are slowly dying
I cannot mold words into feelings
Like a fish on a line that's reeling
My typed words only reach the ceiling
While my message is left on seen
I much prefer one that's handwritten
On it you can see I'm clearly smitten
By the thought that you think all is forgiven
To the mad house is where I should be driven
So accept this letter as you see fit
After this I will surely quit
You may show this to your friends for shits
Or you may reply when the moon is lit