One may argue that art comes from a dark place within us.
She did tell me I write so much when I'm sad and lesser when I'm happier.
It's been a few weeks and I still have so much to say, so much to tell, everything
I'm shouldering I am dying to convert it into words.
The happiness I've faked for you to see is a wall.
I've never been able to come clean when it's you I'm facing.
There were always untruth to things I say to you
from my insecurity that who I really am is not enough.
So I never showed you me.
Never wore my heart upon my sleeves.
You never knew me as well as you thought you did.
This act is tiring.
I'm all worn out from walking on eggshells.
One day, you will miss my words.
A day will come when you will unfold my letters I wrote to and of you and
remember that I was there but you pushed me away.
You will question just when did the drifting away took place
between.
One day, the hurtings I'm feeling right now will haunt you.
And just today, right now, I hope, that that day will never come for you.
