delicate

putting my pen down,
i have not stopped writing,
it is not that i'm afraid,
it is not that i don't believe,
it just that i never stopped trying.

Why would you borrow words,
from the place you only know,
to fill myself with sorrow.

it is delicate, so delicate.
why did you fill my sorrow,
with the selfishness of yourself.
why did you say i'm sorry,
with the consequence untouched.

my pen stops writing,
for tears have made the letter illegible,
for the ink seems too young for this,
paper seems so innocent in this whole.

Never had silence feel my heart this long,
never had my pen stops writing,
never had the writer stops thinking,
now the writer can only think,
what had he wrote all these while,
what he had wrote with life.

Now he can only nostalgia over the words,
over the pages,
over the stains of memoir on some pages,
over some chapters of the book.


_chapter_