Beauty

The soul of a pencil can break, if the hands that hold it are rough.
It bleeds and looses its life on paper,
And still very easily allows, its last signs to be erased.
you can call an art made from it as beautiful,
But what about those empty thrown away papers with hidden stories,
...secrets that never got a chance to unfold,
and some still left incomplete.
Beauty, does it not lies everywhere?