Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Just a little poem

The clock strikes quarter past three
 And the writer secretly bleeds
Locked away craving the release
 She carves the muffled cries of her soul.
She pens the memories of the scars she will never show.
She writes the fantasies that shield her reality
Living in a world no one will ever know
Her beautiful years fade quickly
As she sits alone patiently waiting on the ghost.

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