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My pencil scribbles the same words, over and over, again to the point where the paper is fractured and torn underneath.
I hope, you see my words that have been rephrased a hundred times, and your lips, they utter a cry. Your heart; an old piano with broken keys.
I hope, she reminds you of me, when she talks, so softly, about my show or when she plays my song on your mind. I hope, my phrases cut deep, for your heart; a guitar with broken, ripped strings.
My pen now fairs the same old words, rephrasing each and every line, again. The page lies fractured still; my fingertips graze the wounds, I hope you see my bleeding words.
I wish you'd loathe my verses, now that winter rests upon my tongue and has made herself comfortable. I hope, your soul clenches a bit, your heart; a rusty musical key with no fitting lock.
I feel velvet on my skin, the fabric burns beneath my touch. I hope your eyes flow a river, your heart; a broken melody.
Perhaps, the broken glass of trust pierces your skin too, like my poems, I have penned in your name. Oh, I do hope you see all my words, and weep instead of smile.
