It's too cold tonight,
And all my friends are two years away.
My mother said I could do anything I wanted,
And now I want- I want to live.
So I head to the town with,
My hands filled with hailstones
Of the weeping children.

On the cobblestone of an old town road,
Burning bright like a cigarette flare.
Hiding from the cries of heaven's tears
I am ready to become every minute you leave behind.

This is from my previous poem (now unpublished). I thought it would fit here more.