Echo

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I don’t know what to write,
The pen seems like an old friend,
I have been gone too long,
Sulking more and more everyday,
And now when I am back,
I don’t wish to stain papers with my sadness,
I want every drop of ink,
Every word,
Dripping with happiness,
And beauty,
But I find none,
No fairy tales,
No merry songs of the vagabonds,
I got nothing to offer,
Other than my heart,
Pumping the guilt of every sin,
And every black,
Now mixed with red,
Flowing like poison in my veins,
I want to begin again,
But the ghosts of past seem to have fallen in love with my scent,
The scent of every heartache I ever felt,
And while there is still time to add some words,
None to withdraw one.
Whatever I write is too fragile,
Too imperfect like the echo of my thoughts,
My mistakes and my weaknesses,
All secrets are out now,
And I again find myself wishing,
To take it all back,
And never return.

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