Honesty.

I want honesty.
But I dont know what is the right thing to do with it. Because everything you say makes me do something.

Like when you once said to me you dont read poetry or abstract artistic writing.

You were not trying to hurt me. You were being honest. I know that. I believed it with all my heart. The intent was pure.

I was not.

I just couldnt help feeling trapped by my own nature. By my own self being.

I want to be like ground and machinery. All solid and quiet. And content with what is. But its hard to make the sky fall. To keep a bird still. To close the lid on these feelings.

To stop writing. Like this. Again. 

Isolated

We would like to think we are wiser and above all these teenage hippy trends that share their love to the world. Thats so immature, we say. Those are show offs, we say. They wont last like we will, we say.

Little did we realize, our isolated happiness, turned into my isolated sorrow.

Since no one knows we exist.
No one knows what I feel right now either.

The silence has been amplified threefolds. So much for being "above it all"... and now I am the fool below.

I am the fool below.