Reminiscing back to those moist pages in my diary,
Secrets of my bittersweet life, some of the things that are better left unsaid,
All those inks I wasted and the words that were engraved with a sharpie,
Those are just some tacenda I kept isolated.

I turn that page over and skim through those wasted poems.
It was a city of cursed dilemma and cackling dooms,
I would never know why I was left out on my porch all alone,
Looking out for the promises and pledges done to me?
They asked the reason behind my salty tears,
While I remained mute, some things are just better left unsaid.

When the rain fell, the blood from my finger rinsed onto the street,
Listen close, you would hear the dark tunes and melodies as my heartbeat,
Look close, you would notice the tears behind my vivid smiles,
I withstand the aggressive urge to rip those pages from my life,
But they are the extraordinary scars in my skin of all times,
While I waiting to be swept away from those tragedies,
Why was I was abandoned in that darkest tower,
Where my phobia bred and gave me blisters of fear?
It’s true, some things are just better left unsaid.
A tacenda, a part of my life I kept hidden.

Turn those pages upside down and you would know,
Why I preferred to be sick rather be sane from the portion I brew,
Probably, it’s all a figment of my odd imagination,
But they are the reason why I’m on serious medication,
Some things are just better left unsaid, it’s true,
A part of my life is a tacenda, that I keep tightly hidden.
Mirrors don’t lie, lucky for me, they don’t speak,
Or else it would have confided me about the scars in my skin.

© beautiful monkey