Writing A Cure For The Sorrow.

Each time we look for love and happiness

In the places and hearts, we lost it in.

Our minds quarrel with thoughts...

We can't make new with the remains of yesterday's hues. 

We aren't phoenixes that are reborn with the ashes of oneself.

We are humans, we break, we bleed and we burn.

We are a mess. A wreck of our own inabilities,

Of hollow feelings, of graceful facades,

 Of fake forevers and illusionists of happily ever afters.

To those who live in a chamber of subdued pain.

A chamber of grief turned to hallow gaps in my chest.

A chamber of sorrows turned to a facade of happiness 

A chamber of knowledge turned into ignorance.

A chamber of love

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turned to burned ashes.

And a chamber of regrets turned to blind-eyed memories.

Because sometimes there is peace and beauty

In the absence of real emotions.

To those,

Writing is not just mere words on a piece of paper with ink drawn words. 

Writing is shedding of the skin that traps the soul inside. 

Writings is tracing our regrets with emotions flowing through the tip of the pen. 

Writing is discovering what was hidden underneath all the pressure my mind bore. 

Writing is words dipped in flavors of sweet, bitter and sour syrups

And cooked just right on the heat of our hearts.

And distinctively writing is relief of our very existence and it's pain carried with it.