The ink is on the floor
my hand can hold the quill no longer.
raising my head I see the fire consume the last page
of the most beautiful art I ever made.
My tears fall, but these words I hear
A hand should not write such things
Its better this way, people would not understand it
My head tells me I could have changed the world.
In their eyes I have succeeded in destroying ugly art
in my soul I feel all words I write from here on are false.
Never mind it was just a poem
My poem
The shattered glass is like my mind
the ink my thoughts
lit by my most beautiful art
torn down by misunderstanding hearts.
