I used to write. About my secret life.
Its gets so deep that it grew to be like an art.
My kind of art was so abstract, painted acrylic, hard and beautiful..
It sets colours to imaginations with words that will set people’s minds to think,
and its the kind of art that is going to be appreciated.

But underneath it all, there was pain,
smearing covering the guilt I built up over the couple of years.
A blackhole, written in codes hoping for someone to decipher it for me,
to free me from the grave I built for myself.

One night, someone did make me decipher it for myself for I thought it was for someone else. Everything broke into pieces. That kind of art disappear. I threw it away because it haunted me for me.

Somedays I am thankful that I never have to read it ever again.
But Somedays I wish I could retrieve back for just for arts sake.