When the window
of your mind
is clean,
you can see
the beauty of the Unseen.

I have etched 'no' everywhere on my skin
So the next time you come near
When you touch me and the bumps rise
It can scream what I have never had the strength to say

He pens pretty poetry on a paper pad
hoping the mistakes he made would fade,
He counts each and every syllable to be safe
but the metaphors don't speak the fact.
He pens pretty poetry on a paper pad
to display the heartbeats and darker shades
of living the days of replayed heartbreak
just so that he could bury hurt in sand.

His right hand writes away the tears
the years have made him grown bitter;
he shrivels as the roses start to wither
and poems become scribbled cries no one hears.
He ends tear-stained poems before it gets torn
with last words that read loving you was war.