It can be something, that I know,
it can be something that I remember.
For ages and for years, it's remain hidden.
So, how can I? Now? I can't do it.
Telling it would mean a revealing,
not doing it, would **** me.
How can I be so sure of that?
Tell me, I want to know!
How can I be at risk of my own,
when I am the sole saviour of myself?
The self is an illusion,
and existence can't be a guarantee.
To be or not to be, is a thought.
It can only be a keyhole.
The keyhole of my world,
to that one, of it.
This is merely a question for me.
But the answer would bring havoc to all.
I can't be so sure, if only I can be,
myself and reveal my inside to it.
It is that one thing that I shall be fearing,
and now making me die a little, inch by inch.
Existence was never a guarantee here,
so I am going without delivering an answer.
It would atleast, not make the rest suffer.
I am now the gateway, to that world.
It's coming right in front  of me.
The keyhole was never a doubt.
It's the world that I had not seen before.
It's the escaping, that I meant to have.