A Writer’s Possessions 

My words, 

                   So detached,

                   So alone yet friendly.

My solace,

                 Resides in their curves and loops,

        The striked off lines and their unsure moods.


In my crumbled pages, 

                             Breathes a story,

                   A world unfelt and unknown .


You say I write about you,

And how you condemned me to the vaults of hell.

         But my darling,

        My words are too precious for me,

       To waste on you.

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