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Jan 2021
The ink is my sadness.
The paper is my devotion.
The poem, my love.

The idea is my inner thoughts.
The words are my feelings.
The meaning, my infinite anxiety.

The beginning is a story.
The middle is a resolution.
The ending, a travesty.

The pencil is temporary.
The pen can be disposed.
The writing is forever.
Written by
The Lonely Poet  F
(F)   
  244
       nicetomeetyou, ---, ap, HOPE, Thomas W Case and 3 others
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