I can feel the ink trickling into my stained hands
A strand of nonsensical rhymes, rythyms, and riddles
That no one understands
Wishes scatter onto a empty page recklessly putting themselves into a worded phrase
But everything still seems to fall in place
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 5:45 AM UTC
I can feel the ink trickling into my stained hands
A strand of nonsensical rhymes, rythyms, and riddles
That no one understands
Wishes scatter onto a empty page recklessly putting themselves into a worded phrase
But everything still seems to fall in place
