What if we run out of sadness?
Will our inks turn white from
such happiness?
Can we handle the quiet trees, same empty sun,
and plain ocean?
Yes, I wanted to live
But also exist with this
beautiful world I can call mine
Where the rain has enough rage
to burn emotions sarcastically
Where the lonely people has found their autobiographies
I'm crazy enough to return
to my beautiful demons
Although reality is a
scheme of whitegold
Nothing can beat those seven colors in each word
flowing from a black penned ink

Stop calling me sad
Stop calling me weak
Because if I snap
both fingers,
there's no doubt
You will sink