Jan 2022
When a poet
holds his pen
and the composer
finds the perfect words
the painter mixed the shades
and the singer hit the notes
dearest,
that's when scars turn
into art.
holds his pen
and the composer
finds the perfect words
the painter mixed the shades
and the singer hit the notes
dearest,
that's when scars turn
into art.
As for me?
I bottle all of it up.
And I bleed
a million tiny words
on papers
beneath my wet pillows.
I bottle all of it up.
And I bleed
a million tiny words
on papers
beneath my wet pillows.
(26/F/from the unknown galaxy)
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