Writing is therapeutic. The painting of the voice, they said. 

When the sadness can't be ignored, grab a pen, do the catharsis.

He became the master of art. A poet, the man of every letters. 

It became the world of ecstasy, they get along really well, his miseries.

Million of words, melancholic stories on every page. 

Seemed so pleasant, the garden of despair.

As time went by, there was this feeling coming. He learned how to spell happiness.

Rainbows started to replace the color of blue. Flowers everywhere.

However, the fragrance was too strong he started to loose the sense of making the art.

He then gave it a thought, the feeling he'd been waiting for turned out to be a guest he regretted to invite.

He started to miss the garden of despair. 

After all, pain was the happy pills to drifted him off to sleep.

"Don't invite joys anymore" he talked to the shadow.

"Don't even wake them up, they might kill the art".

"Art sucks when you're happy" they said.

He wanted to be all alone, drank and drowned in the sea of sorrow.

People asked, should you exchange your basket of joy for the sake of writing those what you called art?

Rejecting all those happy feeling just to enjoy the pain.

He still doesn't know, so silent was the loudest answer.

Malang, July 3 2019