I found an exercise book, stuffed at the back
Of a cupboard unit in the flat,
Obviously left behind by the person who lived here before.
It was a diary that was scrawled inside
And I felt kinda like I was prying as I read
The anonymous words that oozed with pain
And hate and ugly feelings cooped in hearts
Of everyone we pass on streets and in the shopping malls.
It just reminded me when I was feeling low
That everyone has written words they stuffed away
That let the pain like blood from wounds.
Yes, we all have wounds and if you only take one thing
From this day of disturbed, delectable delights,
Remember you are not alone.