The words, his craft of silence
Burrow, of despair's unlaundry,
Of an empty room without
Any charge at all.
The words, against the words.
But that he sees not.
The words against the self.
He sees not.
Blinded by narcissism, by that mirror.
Fire from my heart I can slow down time every time I write. My heart beats in between each and every line. What was once a spark has be...
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