It hurts.
Even if it's just some flirts.
Even if it's just a poem.
It still feels like shattering frames.

I can't feel the same rhythm
From the fingers of my own mechanism.
Perhaps it's just difficulties?
Or it's just myself being consumed with anxiety?

Or maybe, it's just that I'm worried.
That I think my own color is blurried.
Guess I'll just have to wash my face.
And keep up with my pace.