Writers are evil, I told myself
They have their hearts broken
Million pieces like the stars
And portray life as universe

They hide themselves behind those pens
And begin to tell the greatest story ever told
They put cream and honey to their tales
To sweeten our journey or feel bad about ourselves

They bleed to death
And use past lovers as an ink
Merely thinking of how to easily get over
They fear being alone and hopeless

But then I met someone
And this is the irony of my story
I've seen someone's soul
I've felt someone's agony

Someone who cries
Is hurt
Broken
Who loves to write

It's funny how those smiles
Hide a deep secret no one knows
Neither you
I was captivated, 'twas a trap

Signorina, no, o! mia ragazza,

You know what I realized after You?
I realized that writers are no evil
They were not at all
They are scarred, broken, and lost individuals
They need attention
But they have no physical voice to shout
They have strenght to move their hand
So they wouldn't have to hurt anyone
But with their words.

Writers are no evil
They are silent rebels
People who share
Selfless enough not to pour their wrath in a verbal way
That would soon go away

They are cunning individuals
Wise enough to know
You may hurt them once or multiple times
But brace yourself and understand
That letters and art are forever
And with that, with the generations to come
You'll be forever hated