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literature
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Literature Text
She was the page,
And he was the poet.
He was the painter;
Her blood was the paint.
The wall was a crisp, clean canvas.
Every day he would
Paint a new picture.
He was a composer,
her screams were his music
Often gone unheard
Within the deafening silence.
And he was the poet.
He was the painter;
Her blood was the paint.
The wall was a crisp, clean canvas.
Every day he would
Paint a new picture.
He was a composer,
her screams were his music
Often gone unheard
Within the deafening silence.
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Kinda creepy. No idea where it came from. I don't like it too much.
© 2011 - 2024 TwyceInABluMoon
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Embrace the creepy poetry! this is gorgeous. I love the imagery and back and forth between the man and woman.