Kayla Townshend

Biography of Kayla Townshend

I'm sorry that I left you things I could never take back. Words are inked across your heart from where I took my pen and I tried to create a map and you closed your eyes and you let me, you let. We were meant to be here, where the words congregate into something sensible only to the lucid eye of a madman. This is written, not with the lead of a crooked pencil point or the swelling black ink of a pen, but in the blood of every creative fiber we've ever known to possess.

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There is a clockwork inside of you,
and the switches are switched.
Intead of ticking you screech.
The pulse is a choatic mess of ups and
downs, the way you function fluttering
within the range of malfunctioning,
and they wanted to defect you for it,
but I can't let them.
Some days I am the enemy but most days

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