Her writings overflowed with emotion,
But she herself was an empty shell.
She took it as a precaution,
That true love is never felt.
She killed everyone with her words,
But she herself is immortal.
And so this she hated herself for it,
Even if she earns the poet label.
Then she suddenly met him,
To which her poems were given life.
But to still feel helpless and cold,
She just wanted to die.
But he never let her go,
Her leaving as much as she tried to,
He sought to bring back life into her arms,
To bring me back to you.
I write for a lot of people, for a lot of feelings. I know i have my emotions but sometimes they're so intense, they kind of cancel themselves out and I end up with "what exactly am i supposed to feel?" I struggle sometimes with inspiration and the writing process, but i guess thats normal. But to write without a heart, that's lying to yourself, your writing material and the world.
I still feel like this sometimes. But everything is better no matter what happens, as long as i return to you at the end of the day, wjh.
