The Writer

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She bleeds tears of ink,
Jet-black, and bruised blue,
Over white empty smiles;
Her face is a page you never knew.

Her heart is a ribbed prison,
Of vanishing stories, half-penned,
All but forgotten in her laughter,
Too many for you to mend.

Untold volumes gather dust,
Of people who left her behind,
And others she shelved away,
In the labyrinth of her mind.

And yet there still lies
A taped-up, tattered book
Locked up in her heart for you,
If you know where to look.

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3 responses to “The Writer

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