think about it

written in cursive
blood stainted the page
of what seemed to be a diary
written for a grave.
all thoughts contained
of sorrow and pain;
the face seemed happy
but who looks at the inner core
when there's so much more to see,
so much more things to taste,
too many red stained petals
to be folded between pages?
from beings that claimed to be
your true happines.
tell me
didn't you cry in pain before
from the same being who pushed you
on the floor
against the wall
happiness sounds dangerous to me
why is happiness there everytime you fall?