On that ripped piece of paper,
Now filled with teardrops,
Where I now wrote my poem.
I was almost done with it.

Who knew that words
That join together
To form poetry,
Could affect the heart so much.

The poem,
With intricate, gay yellow written words,
Filled with vivid light and sunshine,
Was replaced with heartbreaking and depressing words.

The once golden field of happiness,
Turned into a ruined garden.
The once bright sunshine and rainbows,
Disappeared and were replaced by storms and rain.

I loved you,
But now that you've left me,
A piece of me,
Has been ripped.

And now, on this ripped piece of paper,
The poem,
Along with the story it's telling,
Was almost finished.