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the white portrait
scarred by that fine line,
the fine line that could not erased.
later the artist came.
he painted colours, he filled the whites
but deep down he knew,
that all these, were merely a facade,
a disguise, such that no one could tell
what was within, what was hidden.
this beautiful disaster, a secret,
shared only by the artist, and perhaps,
the person that gave the paper its first touch.

the paper became a vibrant one,
surfacing as a colourful portrait,
the differents paints used by many artists.
each came and painted their way on the landscape.
each came and left.
the picture became history
people grew sick of it,
colours fading,
there it stood on its stand,
forgotten and lost.
lost in reality,
lost in its own world,
lost in memory.
as the paints wear off,
the fine line, surfacing again.

they say, scars heal over time.
do they? it may be forgotten, temporarly.
but it creeps back to you now and then..
whenever dark comes, or whenever u're alone in a little room.
having the fear its going to be locked on you..

having the fear that you will be forgotten...
that no one cares if you're locked behind that door...
having the fear that your pain brings happiness to others.
that no one cares if you're crying out loud...