To you these are simply few words with little meaning, scribbled on paper.
This art is made up of blooming thoughts.
Once remarked, then glorified.
Recognition of the amazement in ourselves.
No longer an outcast
Just a vessel of beauty.
Never will you know how much these words mean to me.
You are blind to me.
I am lined paper torn up and thrown on the cold floor
You’re oblivious to the steps you take.
These words are endless thoughts with no magnitude.
My soul is in disguise, between faint blue lines, hidden but alive.
Thriving, with the pain of no gratitude.
I’m sorry you cannot see the beauty in paper.
I’m sorry you cannot see the beauty in me.
— The End —