I was an opus, and you were the instrument.
You needed me and I needed you.
We were the perfect sonata,
More than just music.
Each oscillation,
Every wave of notes,
Sounded more than angels singing.
An uncorrupted harmony.
..........
Alas, time had passed.
You got in a blase.
An opus,
I was scribbled, crumpled, thrown, and left to live in the dust.
By you.
By you.
Like a piece of sheet music you fondly knew.
I was merely treated as a piece of paper.
Often played, and used.
I know realize that you didn't need me,
You used me for your own ideals.
You played my virtuous heart,
You didn't even bother to care for my feelings,
You just played with it.
I now know, that I was a mere tool YOU used for your own selfish desires.
