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  8h Torri Pines
Isaac
art
The painter never
runs out of ink. He paints till
he knows he must bleed.
And she felt like shattered glass
Glistening in the sun sparkling so bright almost blinding
To sharp to hold
So utterly broken beyond repair
Like a fine dust almost like she was not even there
this poem is the last one I wrote down 58 weeks ago instagram tells me hoping to find inspiration to let the writer in me be loud again maybe in this space thanks for reading me.

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