We all have stories to tell. sad stories, funny stories, critical stories, wise stories...
sometimes the stories we tell are hypotheticaly abwt ourselves.
theaz no certainty of telling which story we tel wil b real. We pick a chapter from the bo0k of our lives n tell a story from that...
here is a dilema...you have a story, bt the entire bo0k you picked it from was sad...
here'z this girl, moving to a yellow street, new address, new life, new love n everythn. her house is pretty yellow with white fencing n blue roofing... black grass n red tiles... she has a smile on her face, bt its nt real...she has a sharp object in her hand n its making her ble3d...
her hair is gray, n her nails are frayd...
her broken eyes tilt tha sun n u only c a mirage of sanity...an oasis of happines in a desert of pain...
her h3art is charred and the sky iz clear...
her story, untold to the world. her pain, unfelt by the earth...
its 1story, with no pretty ending...
cUT, BL33D, DI3, SCREAM...
a blo0dy m3ss, a fucking wr3ck,
*a br0k3n c0rps3*
she'z nt dieng,
she'z nt livin,
she has no beatin heart
bt a broken one...
We are making a mark!!!
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