I bleed red on the paper white sheets
wondering why spaces still exist,
Saddest lines can no longer be seen
Not on the paper, but they're on my skin
Wished to be an art hanging on the ceiling
thought my life is all about failing

Once blinded in the starlight deep within your eyes
awakened by the meteors and shooting stars,
I've found galaxy in mine.

No metaphor can beautify
the poems wasted named after you.
A paper plane, a love letter to my demons
Slowly forgetting my favorite poetry of all.