I have a voice to sing,
but no one is there to hear me.
Echoing back into my ears,
I sing to no one but me.
You have a voice to sing,
everyone is there to hear you.
Reaching out to my ears,
I stayed and listened to you.
I sing, sing, sing,
until my throat screams in pain.
But no one is listening.
I no longer have a voice to sing,
but there you are, singing my song.
You are my song.
I wrote your name on the red paper.
Every time you hurt me, I crushed it.
It turned into a rose,
The thorns making my hands bleed.
I kept holding on.
Every time you loved me, I unfolded it.
It turned into a piece of red paper.
Rather scrunched, but your name was still on it.
I crushed it.
Then I unfolded it.
I crushed it again.
Then I unfolded it again.
Until I realised, your name disappeared.
The ink either melted into the paper,
or simply gone due to the friction.
The red paper was almost blank.
I put it, somewhere.
It couldn’t lie flat anymore.
The edges sticking up,
as if it was ready to flutter away.
Then the gust of wind took my red paper away.
I guess it’s time for a new paper.