The stain, left creeping in each direction, ugly and curled
Like photographs for sick people who never saw the world
The autopsy of their nostalgia is always different from the rest
And portray a shrunken, dried-up heart inside their chests
A fresh start constantly within their reach
A chance to feel like someone else, not smashed against defeat
For hearts to bleed, they loved ones need
For hearts to grow, someone to show
For ghosts like them, atleast for some
A change in hope will never come

A diary left inside a drawer in the shed
What’s the point, anymore, in writing before bed?
Locked away and resting under blankets of dust
These immortalized memories are dying in their rust
Bearing with them childish hopes
The ones that once instilled trust
Those moments have now left a scar, like crevasses in time
With no one reading, all those feelings and no way to rewind

I wiped the torn wall clean from dirt
I tidied up the shed
Everything within me hurts,
The book I never read;
Remembering that which came first
And though maybe not the worst
Seeing all the faces that I never met
That stain left a weight, heavy as led
I know I’m lucky, because I too,
might aswell be dead