Should I write down the sound I hear in my outward bound thought?
If the pen tells the paper will it be forever?
But then forever comes.
The black ink fades away.
Never.
The thought stays a sound.
Forgot and never found.
Truth and fact turn to fiction without diction.
Cover it up.
It\'s a must.
Then stop.
Mop up the black ink.
Wait for it to dry.
Daily I live a lie.
Sweep it under the rug.
Pull it out never.
Never will come.
I can\'t let it be known.
I truly want to die.
I kill myself with toxic ways...
Only on Saturdays.