She was a writer, the one who lived in her imaginary world. Her lips do not speak, but her pen does. Her ink filled pages gave lives to fantasy. She dreamed timelessly of the things that can never happen. When the monsters were at bay, she wrote, of things that belonged to another world.
She was a work of art. The words that tumble beneath her pen spoke the language of the night. She painted evocative pictures in the minds of the readers by using the words of black and white. She reigned to escape reality for she lived among the stars. A moment of serenity it was.
She was a dark soul. With the creatures of darkness, she danced in the pale moonlight. Fabricated by nostalgia, she built a bridge of words with the moon to light the way to paradise. Somewhere in between a nightmare and lost dreams, she laid underneath the stars wishing she wasn't the mess she was.
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The Beauty of Chaos
PoetryShe was a writer, the one who lived in her imaginary world. Her lips do not speak, but her pen does. Her ink filled pages gave lives to fantasy. She dreamed timelessly of the things that can never happen. When the monsters were at bay, she wrote, of...
