/Page 86/
In the trash can lie 4 crumbled papers.
4 failed attempts to be apart of something you could never fathom.
So you start again with pencil.
You sharpen the pencil even if it was already pointed.
By erasing what made the mistake, then maybe beauty can come from it.
You want to create something of beauty.
But, what do you know of beauty.
Another page crumbled.
You uncap a pen.
Because maybe the raindrops that birth from a pen can make the petals blooms from your garden of blue lines.
But, all that sprout are weeds.
Ugly weeds.
But that's all your words are.
Weeds that steal the air from your lungs, in search of something meaningful.
Another page crumbled.
6 wasted papers in the trash can.
You pick them up and recycle them.
Because, atleast if they're recycled then maybe can they make something beautiful.
Maybe, they can be the paper, the pencil for someone with lilys in their lungs.
Page 7.
You try again, because no one was born a success.
You start again, because you hope this time you can make something right.
Page 7 completed.
You look at it.
Read it.
Ripped.
It wasn't good enough.
This never was.
You were never a writer.
You weren't even a reader.
You tried this out because it was popular, and you wanted to fit in.
But they can see through you window.
You can see through your mirror.
And all of it relfects desperation.
You're not a poet.
And you chose not to recycle the pen, the pencil, the 7 crumbled pages, or the notebook.
How can trash be made into something better, when it was already the best it was going to get.
You can't make flowers out of weeds.
/Page 86/crumbled/
