All of those pens
That I scribbled down my raging agonies with,
Are they happy that I used them?
Or are they sad after being emptied while feeling the emptiness of my heart?
All of those blank papers
That I wrote down my sorrows on,
Are they happy that I filled them?
Or are they mourning after being stuffed with pain?
All of those crayons
That I drew my eyes with,
Are they happy that I colored using them?
Or are they wailing after the glimpse of the monochrome of my eyes?
If they could feel,
Would they be proud of me?
Or would they consider me a horrific art
That ripped them apart?
Anisa
