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We as writers have the ability to do many things.
We know how to change the tenses of many different words,
Such as love becoming had loved
And together becomes we were together.
We have the knowledge to change things
From the affirmative to the negative,
Such as we’re in love
To she isn’t in love
Or she is always by my side
To I rarely see her anymore.
We can combine the two
To change something that is happening
To something that might have never even happened,
Such as how will always be in love
Changes to were we ever in love?
And how I love you
Could be flipped to ask
Didn’t you ever love me?
Inspired by many memories from many people. This idea has been occupying space in my head for a few days now... This is the release I have found for it.
 Jul 2017 Stevie Trujillo
Hollow
I have never needed someone to be a part of my life so much.
I don't even really know you.
Do I?

I feel like I do because I know I love you.
And I know I need your touch.
But do I really know it's true?
Do I really know it's you?

If this life has taught me something.
It's that your heart will tell you the truth.
-When they're important.
-And when it's time to run.

You see that day our eyes met.
I heard my brain let out a faint-
Oh ****.

And it was in that moment of clarity, in that moment of peace.

My soul realized, it had found its missing key.

There was nothing else left to see.
This is an old piece.
you're the book he never reads
but he keeps you on his nightstand
anyways.
love hurts
Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again
Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
http://twitter.com/athomashawkins
Ink
She was to him what ink is to paper,Giving meaning to his blank canvas.His one silly move ,and she spilled all over blotting him completely, running out of herself
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