Tearing, like pages of a notebook filled with secrets not meant for eyes of others.
Audible scream of pages rending the soul, it’s blood imperceptible to the human eye, to your eye.
Hands covered in scarlet ink, miasm of a downfall.
Staining the surroundings evermore to a point where only your private world is filled with clues.
Invisibly visible dystopia triggered by every contention.
A touch of ice no longer grabs attention, indifference masking the eyes of emotion.
Seeking happiness in fleeting moments is indeed fleeting when quicksands take their time.
So let’s grab some tape and restore the broken poems of happiness into one book again.