Worlds form at the tip of her pen,
Her golden hair falls over her eyes,
You can hear the scratches of the nib,
The ink is to despise,
She wrote such stories of horror,
He mind is black but her heart is pure,
Her hand moves faster than the speed of sound,
It always seems to want more,
The tears drain from her eyes,
They're now red with rage,
Her pen has left scratches inside her head,
Instead of on the page.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryThere is a small thread between truth and lies, between love and hate and between you and I. However, the thread can easily be broken; that's when life begins. I'm school, you read. You've spend hours reading 1,000 year old poems and studying author...
