Hope no longer finds home in words, the pen has run dry of ink long ago. So you sharpen your tongue and pull those words across your page, cutting yourself open, and writing in blood, to fill empty pages, trying to feel something, anything again.
Hope no longer finds home in words, the pen has run dry of ink long ago. So you sharpen your tongue and pull those words across your page, cutting yourself open, and writing in blood, to fill empty pages, trying to feel something, anything again.