My mistress’ eyes on black morn darker be than the sun amid versed tragedy. And beneath her eyes are deeply entrenched sad memories with tears sordidly drenched

To whom it may concern (never write who) I’m submitting the attached to apply -- Does not every word read somehow imply “Thank you for your consideration” too? --

When you told me that I was beautiful, I had no choice but to shrug those words off, tip my shoulder like I was pouring full a drink: the toast to which my faults we’d quaff.

Were I to be honest right now I’d face the desire to, my feelings, replace, At least with my words to say all is fine While my anxiety runs up a cline