She is a blank slate
pleasant sight of purity,
always caught in mire artistic situations,
attracts nothing but cold, grimed,
treacherous hearts,
somehow, always ends up in tainted hands,
to painters who were not meant
to hold a brush.

Our love was not made to last,
        like snow, falling, crescent, sparkling;
        gently, and softly, it brushes my heart.

I admired it as I gently held out my hand
        I tried to grasp it but it was too fragile,
        suddenly it fades, not slowly,
        but all at once.

All we do is nothing,







but love
and runaway.

If my tears could grow trees
with every drop
from the pain you caused,
the world
would flourish;
growing like the sadness
you impetuously bestowed.

They were both each other’s tragedy;
his ‘the one that got away’,
her beautiful blunder.

don't ask me if i'm okay,
for I will always say yes

ask me if i'm bleeding,
ask me do I hurt,
ask me if my broken heart
deserves the world,
ask me, if I love you,
do I or do I?

only with that
I won't ever say a word.