It's a broken frame now
But it used to be the most beautiful view
Art isn't born without intention
The fear and anger mixed make it pretentious
Loved a picture because of its beauty, pots and flower
Blamed the person who made it
A broken mirror.
It showcases itself as a beautiful victim
Making sanity lose itself; it's a verbatim
Quiet souls try hard to fix the broken
Putting bandages over its narrations
Letting the shards cut the flesh
Saying, “it's what makes fear feel fresh”
Night was awaiting,
You left it complaining
The perfect picture in a wooden frame
How come it let itself be framed?
An easel wasn't its job after all
It felt the pressure of worlds and broken hearts.
Love was being painted on top
Envy was the only emotion for its wrath
You should've told me you were as fragile as a glass
The tension phrases of “Sorry” can't fix the broken pieces of glass

How will the guilt go?
When the souls of the past bubble up to sorrows