Writing Sad Things

I write sad things.
I write sad things with the use of bouquet of figurative speeches,
with the perfect rhymes I exhibited, 
with the bizarre words I carefully chosen,
and the myriad lines as pedestrian lanes to the routes of my notions.

I write sad things with the help of my quirky emotions,
with the help of my melancholic vocabulary on my mind,
with the help of scars and bruises etched on me.

I write sad things inspired on my sleepless nights,
inspired on my wet bed because of the tears of my eyes.

I write sad things not to have an open-letter plea.
I write sad things not to make readers cry.

I write sad things simply to narrate and tell something.
I write sad things merely to jot down the thoughts that are haunting me.

I write sad things, and I no longer look upon the past nor present.
I write sad things for the future.

For I'm preparing earlier these scribbles of mine which will serve as an invincible ghost of yours on me sooner or later. And this just only proves that the past, present and future all exist at the same time. 

Maybe I'm fated to be at the center of oblivion —fated to write sad things for everyone who left me and planning to do so. I write sad things in order to meet new people who will suddenly go away too someday.

I write sad things 
to accept 
that everyone 
is good at 
quiting and 
leaving.