Your room is,

Without a doubt,

An utter mess

It screams to me

When you won't

Your photographs are on the ground,

Their frames smashed and shattered,

The smiling faces crying tears of glass

Your books,

Once pristine and beautiful,

Have been killed

Your pens lie, discarded,

Their black blood smeared across the devastated pages

Blotting out words like "love" and "forever"

But where are you, my friend?

Without you,

Your room screams

In this silent house