Faded tree figures loom near,
visible as a smear
on what used to be the Mona Lisa.

The great work of art
goes to waste
as its paint is fingered,
by each person,
like its some sort of photocopy,
covering the masterpiece
with old, dirt, and impurities
that are not naturally occurring on skin.

Leonardo da Vinci would be appalled
at our treatment of his gift,
made to be given to one person,
yet he loved it...
and gave it to us instead.
Now stare once again
at its poor condition.

A walk back home,
Mother, older in number,
but perfection and love retained.
Father, his usual stringent posture
arched to form a hug.
Sister, her voice resounding happiness,
Translating into dancing, singing, yelling.
Me? Teary eyed. Tears of happiness.

A walk back alone,
Into my cerulean room,
The azure curtains still hang,
Wrinkled from THE night’s frustration.
On the cobalt coverlet still lay,
Tear stains which narrate me a forgotten story.
Hidden inside my teal cupboard,
I find lost love’s fake promises.
Me? Teary eyed. Tears of blues.

A walk in dreams,
At crossroads, I meet an angel.
He asks me to make a wish.
I ask for his heart, in exchange for mine,
He grants my wish with powers divine.
He falls, I catch but the world’s serpentine.
Yet he loves and like a star I shine,
Me? Teary eyed, Tears of rejoice.

sadness is a poem on its own.

I like, can't even

So annoyed like
#bye

I want to die
but I haven't even tried coke