The last page of my journal

So I was looking through my old journal and on the last written page was another angst piece of prose that I must have written years ago.StopDead lights;

Day lights;

They make me feel like I’m at home. It really isn’t appropriate to bottle up all that emotions because it would leak from you. And it does show. Maybe it’s just me; unable to keep and suppress them for a while longer till a surge of passion and immiscible emotions flows down to my toes. Some might call me a flower guy; My emotions might change with the weather of a situation often catalyzed by the people around me.

My life in this box ain’t easy. The melody and the gears are turning and everyone inside seems to be revolving around my misery.

Many rivers to cross. 

I can’t seem to find my way. The leaves have fallen in the shadowland.

This was a home for me.

The ground has broken into puzzle pieces, with no life in between the lines.

I’ve had to keep this ‘thing’ of mine a secret for way too long. Why didn’t they ask? I do not know why. Isn’t it obvious? Maybe they were too afraid to ask. Do I need to be asked? Maybe because I looked as if I wasn’t comfortable with myself and that they didn’t find me approachable to engage in a conversation.


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