You stop to read,
The words you read are something upon which you agree,
But the author doesn't want to write-she wants to bleed,
And her plead was there to read,
And it was read but not a tear shed or a stay was pled.
Not until a bullet was put through the head that had said the words that were rarely read but we're a need to those who took their time to pace what they read and saw the tears leaking through a screen when the woman was reading,
And only then was their pleading.
The authors words are still read,
The love was late and the author was dead.
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I came here to write.
I think it was everyday.
What am I saying.
I don't know what I'm saying.
