What am I, but a drink spilled?
A stepped-on bouquet after a party.
A shredded letter of a broken love.
A stained long-distance memory.
I was supposed to be a flower
but I was trampled and neglected
by the one who was to take care of me.
What am I, but a cracked glass,
unfit to hold emotions inside?
Too much for myself, too much for others.
An annoyance.
What is this? A supposed poem?
But it's me trashing words,
or am I trashing myself?