Guilty

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.