writing is more of a freedom to me than a passion
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You pulled me back and forth, Like an old wind up clock. Treating me like my love was available at any time. What was I to you I ask,
By ~S.R.B Writings6 years ago in Poets
There’s a boy who loves too hard Yet he’s seen way too much Broken down, nothing let His eyes scream for someone Yet no one listens to him or bothers to stop