

TheWritingOfaMillioNhEARTSThe greatest poet picks his quill between his fingers,just to drag his script along this old brown page...The tear runs down his cheek..Writes what everyone is writing about...when it comes down to it... The night outside is lonely and cold... With his dried mascara she'd put on him before she left. The moon is painting the side of his face white. While his eyes reflect the moon like the surface of a lake...TheWritingOfaMillioNhEARTS
Biting his lip while he speaks the words to himself. How come she never understood what he saw in her...The times when her hair on his face was breaking his heart. He wrote this before it h
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Gee, you knit?
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ouch
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