May 31
I don't write when iam happy
Joy makes me dance,not think
It fills my hands with flowers
Not pens.
But sadness?
She sits me down,
Open my chest,
And spills the ink.
Joy makes me dance,not think
It fills my hands with flowers
Not pens.
But sadness?
She sits me down,
Open my chest,
And spills the ink.
