Hurt..

She wrote him a poem,
He bought her an erasor to rub the story.
She wrote him a prose,
To scratch it he chose.

Her feelings he scathed,
With just no regard.
Her steps never wrong,
He still forgot her like a song.

She’ll still love the times gone by,
With no word about it ever.
Those memories are special,
Will always remain dear.

The spite may grudge her soul,
But will fail to sour it.
She’ll never know the reason,
The reason may mar it.

So now with newfound failure,
And new hope for the future,
She chooses not to forget the past,
Still, re-create the present.

It may not be as bright as she had imagined,
But it will not be dull too.
Just one thing about this all mess
She will never build beautiful hopes ANYMORE.

-Stuti

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