Nov. 07

Nothing of love can become of this heart

It is nothing but a progressive work of art

Writing till my hands are calloused

Thinking till every thought in my mind is bled dry

There is no room for the emotional side of me

Cannot let a soul inside

There is nothing for them to hold onto

Just a bunch of cold, frozen organs

That have gone uncared for for so long

and everything else is dried up

From the constant work

Haven't slept in weeks,

There is too much to do

Cannot affort to waste time sleeping

Some days I don't bother eating

Unless itis for extra inspiration

Got to continue writing

Need to keep working

because without it I am nothing

Because I have nothing else

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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