this diary isn’t for you to read anymore
so stop trying to pry it open
its locked,
and there’s a key for a reason.
stop acting like you know me
the truth is, you don’t.  
i could write down things about myself
and you could read them
but what about those that i don’t write
you don’t know me,
so don’t think you do.
i’m not an open book like you think i am
some chapters are meant to be kept hidden
and i don’t want you reading them.

don’t forget me
ask me how i am every now and then
think of me sometimes
and miss me
u won’t forget me, will u?
i know i’m nothing to u anymore
but won’t u still
think of the things we did before
and smile?

lifes that once intertwined together
two persons mess that tangled as one
however the strings seemed to loosen and untangle
the knot that held them together untied
soon enough they distanced and let go

I am sorry,
I am a bad girl.
I am sorry,
For tainting your soul.
I know and I know,
Things will never be the same.
You know,
My soul has been crying so hard,
Wishing things could be much more easier.
It is too late, right?
For me to mend things up?
It is too late,
For me to say I am sorry.

In my strangest dream,
I can hear myself calling out,
I rush and rush,
But cannot find a way.
I look around,
I see all kinds of nostalgic colours.
I feel the gentleness wrapping around me,
Taking away the coldness in my heart.
I fall for this ecstasy,
Drowning myself in something that will never last.
But it is okay,
Because you know what,
I know I will be fine.
After waking up from this,
I will still be able to see the sun smiling down at me.

One look,
Unsure whether to accept it,
But after one bite,
My mind goes hazy,
It goes in different colours,
Like fireworks.
Baby,
Your love brings magic,
Your embrace leads me into a different world,
Your passionate kiss explodes in my mind,
Like a music blazing off in a club.
Baby,
Your feelings,
Every bit of you,
I cannot stop having you.
Baby, you are like a drug.
A precious drug.

Here comes the rain tears,
Drenched in pink,
Softening the colour of the background,
All you can feel is gentleness,
These are the feelings of the sky.

I was taught
not to write
when i could not find the right words

Poetry is more than just
pen and paper
Poetry is a feeling
waiting to be heard
waiting to be written
waiting to be felt