Dear Sorrow

You've come too often.
My mother is starting to notice. 

My friends are complaining that you're always with

me when they want to hang out. 

They just want a girls night. 

Oh, Sorrow. 

I've grown used to you holding my hand and

dragging me along on our adventures. 

I've grown used to you carrying me away from

my stressors in life. 

Perhaps I've gotten too used to you.
My teachers are worried about my glazed eyes

whenever I think of you. 

My grades have dropped because

we're always hanging out. 

Sorrow, dear dear Sorrow.
I have to let you go.

j.h