lone teardrops
of pain and despair
has slipped from these hollow pools,
like rain falling from the gloomy sky,
for years you weren't aware of.

wouldn't have never let you know
if it wasn't killing the soul inside
until it was bare nothing,
but broken pieces
such like a shattered glass
that can't be stitched up
with the unconditional love
you wish to provide to heal.

but these sharp edges
will never line up
like you want them to be
in order for you
to hold on to that one single piece
you believe you could hold
when there's nothing left
except your red painted hands,
red flowing from the touches of me.

the stains are lovely, surreal,
looking natural on the canvas
full of those dark streaks
layered over with these salty streams
that never seem to stop
late at lonely nights
even if you knew.

the pools have over watered
the sight of fragmented life,
but guess this is it.
this is what is left
at being nothing
that seems more
than it should be.

415, 121019