Writing is a release,
Pen to paper makes magic.
I've wrote of everything.
Everything I saw and I heard.
I've written of love between him and her,
Of love between him and I,
And the curse that broke it all.
The pen made it to the paper when death occurred.
I wrote of how I miss them,
And of how things have changed since.
I've written of freedom and of unity.
Friendships and enemies,
And of the make-ups along the way.
I wrote of how the wind swayed,
Of the different colors in the mid-day,
And how beautiful the world truly is.
But for some reason I could not write this.
Could not put words together correctly,
And this feeling was something unusual.
I could not bear to relive this day,
Or to bring the memoires up again.
Tears will far, this I know.
Can I express it?
Will it be best?
Or shall I lock it away inside?
