Ruins

She used to write.

She used to spend days at a time in foreign places,

Fantasy worlds where everything was different and everything was perfect.

She used to make up worlds of her own

With no worries and no problems.

She could have been a best-selling author.

But then her worlds grew dark and cold

And the perfect places she'd escaped to no longer seemed perfect.

She doesn't write anymore.

He used to dance.

He used to tell stories with his body,

Used to paint a picture with his impressions

Of a place that anyone could understand.

He used to create a world where anyone could find their own happiness, their own love.

He could have been a dazzling performer.

But then his stories got darker and his impressions became too personal

And the people he dreamed of swaying stopped watching.

He doesn't dance anymore.

She used to sing.

She used to put her emotions into song

And compose melodies that spoke her feelings without words.

She used to move audiences to tears of joy

And of sadness.

She could have been an inspiring singer.

But then the crowds stopped cheering and her melodies stopped flowing

And her feelings grew too dark to express to the world.

She doesn't sing anymore.

He used to draw.

He used to express his dreams through a pen.

He used to draw dazzling portraits

Illustrating the deepest colors of his soul,

Landscapes depicting places that were only known to his memories.

He could have been a famous artist.

But then his landscapes burned and his dreams fell away

And the colors blurred and ran together into something that was no longer beautiful.

He doesn't draw anymore.

Now her bookshelf collects dust

As she fills it with volumes that will never be opened

And her instruments hide away in the corner of her closet,

Never to be played again.

Now his studio remains dark

With stage lights that never shine

And his art sits crumpled on his desk

Beside pens that run dry despite never being opened.

Their suffering can be seen through the death of their favorite things,

The lives they don't change and the art they don't create.

They scream to the world with their silence,

Cry out that they need help, that they can't go on.

But all the world sees is the ruins of what they could have become.