liana johns


Letters To The Soul

Frantic flowing of pen and ink
Flying across a sheet of innocent white
Though unsure of what I really think
I mask it well in what I angrily write
This passage to the friend I wish I could hate
As she thinks of me as I do of her
It pains me to write that she is far too late
To reverse the effects of what she made me endure
Yet still she is whom I could never deny

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