❛We are writers, my love. We do not cry. We bleed on paper.❜
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❛JUST LIVE.❜
❛JUST LIVE.❜
❛JUST LIVE.❜
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ALL THE POETS ARE DEAD | POETRY
Poetry❝THE POETS ARE GONE. THEIR BODIES HAVE RETURNED TO THE DIRT, NOTHING BUT BONES.❞ A woman of words is like a garden full of weeds and when the weeds begin to grow its like a pen-knife in your heart and then your heart begins to bleed and then your de...
