She had a worn down composition,
With a cover scratched and dull
And illustrated inside
Were the contents of her soul
She had pens of different colors,
In blacks and blues and pinks.
And she spilled her heart out with each line
Of raw unprocessed ink
Every downfall, every scar
Made permanent by choice
Using words of sour truth
To give this hurt a voice
Speaking out with boldness
The sorrow of her tale
Let it be known to all the world
That what she wrote was real.
Author notes
I don't feel satisfied with this.
Maybe later.
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