She's writing,
Using her own blood,
Flowing from her broken heart.
And like a piece of paper,
She could easily,
Tear apart.
A writer, she is.
Writers, we are.
But also a shattered art.
Story
the WritEr
About the author
Her right hand weeps silently She wanders lonely as a cloud. Sometimes she's incoherent For her thoughts aren't that loud. •16 years old°
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