Klaudia Eastwood


Ink

Pouring your heart out in the form of ink,
Onto paper in words, constantly feeling the sting.
Only its messy scrawl feels the pain,
Of your unbearable loss and your struggle to gain.
Truths that won't spread through whispers and such,
But truths that are written, with a shaky touch.
And when the page is full, you tear as you were torn,
its surface with your feelings it's worn.
To flames it goes, like your trust did do

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