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Dry Ink × Wet Blood
Pages of burning emotion flutter through the wind
Flipping from one end of my journey and milestones to the other
Letting the sun kiss each page as it transfers
The ink is dry
But the blood, and tears I've graced these pages with are very much still running through the words planted in the same field.
My pen screamed and etched images of my future
As my brain burned with a passion magnified by a deep sickness
And as the gunshots of thought blare
My pen rams the pages
And then silence
The scribbling scratches of the quill quiets down
And the accelerated breathing turns soft and shakey
The Prophet ends his journal entry
With a slice of the thumb
A bit of blood smeared on his art to ensure his life stays with it
And a night of deep sobbing stalking closely behind.
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