What sad sorrow one can bring
As paper is spoiled by the ink
From a pen whose forgotten name is
Loosely engraved on.
What deep despair one may have
As their blood pours gently down the sink.
When a blade goes across the skin to slash,
Only then, does one truly start to think.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC
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