the flickering of soul that heats you to melt, will wax the words in a diary of Rose's, but the thorns of those pages will someday turn vintage and you will be gone but your secrets will be there.. (Caption...) (Read caption...) "Write it out until what hurts you heal". I read it somewhere and just picked up my pen back. Alphabets started to nurture from my oesophagus, my blood started to rush in my eyes, and my phalanges marked the first letter of smile. The page turned violet and the ink turned grey, alike the clouds in hailstorm that are screaming above their chest to spill out their emptiness, but ends up crying in arrogance of failure. The cortex of my brain started to drizzle, I fell across the fringe of roof where the stars waited for the moon to arise, the halo around my trifle shattered as the universe forbade monsoons, and then my limbs wake up to write, for writing helps but the deceivence of letters hurts more.
