Each passing day I get a little bit wiser , but not enough to be okay.
There are parts of me that no one knows, parts of me that I can only bare in pages of a journal, tucked deep in a shelf , where no one could find it , or me.
There are people I wanted to tell all my secrets to ,but they became one of the secrets I could never tell.
There's a part of me that needs constant reassurance, that I mean something to someone ,cause I mean nothing to myself.
I wish so hard to be able to write beautifully sculptured sentences, that would be able to express what's going on in my heart , but everytime I try my heart starts to beat faster and a lump appears in my throat.
So I'll tuck myself in the back of a shelf , away from sight , with my messy pages and messy writing and wait for the day I'll get a little more wiser.
