The pen scratches on the scraps of her heart,
Those fingers work their magic
And she cries while her words are pinned down.
She has tried to paint of beauty
But each poem, every sonnet, ends up in the garbage.
And with every failure she throws a piece of her heart away with it.
Soon there will be nothing left.
But this goodbye letter painted with tears.


~~if this doesn't go well i might just delete it, i dont usually write sequels to my poems but i figured i'd give it a try. please comment~~