writing these words,

like concealing my problems.

The words prompt to conceal each and every mishap that infests my brain.

It’s my escape,

my drug,

out of my own head.

Uninviting and cold the outside may seem,

but the inside can only reveal worse adjectives to this surrending sorrow.

Carrying brain waves,

the activity lingers,

and thoughts burrow my soul.

If someone were to dig deep enough,

but who would desire to do such a boring task.

Melodies caress my feelings into ectsasy.

Worried wrinkles surrounding me can only bring more concealment of this buried “treasure”.

The treasure,however, is not hiding beautiful gold.

Something much more harming lies
beneath it’s wooden locks.