The glass melts as thoughts bloom,
a crimson flower in flowing blood,
dries and cakes on the surface of my skin,
like a distant wish for things not meant for me.
Hold out my hands, ask for something nice
continue my plea in hope of reception..
continue my hopes in my liquid words..
paper dries in the sun as do I.
Sand piles in the holes of time,
in this garden of gray, I may waste it.
Fill the pages of a blank book,
fill it with pointless scribble and text.
Was never meant to be read,
was never meant to be grasped in those hands,
didn't need to be torn to just one side,
didn't need to be subject to pain.
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