He holds the pen as though a sword, He strikes the paper, launching his attack, And now the paper's sitting there, Splotched in dark, dark black.
poem by Cambria L.
We were. Once. We smiled. Once. We loved. Once. We cared. Once. We died. Once. We lived. Twice Read more
To look at the sky, it seems so far, To wish upon a morning star. To climb up the highest tree, This is what it is to be free. I do not like to be free, It does not make me happy, When I make my choices, I'm always hearing vo... Read more