3 a.m.

11

She was no writer but she wrote down her feelings
The ash trough her veins made her wanna rip the world apart
Words were morphine that numbed her pain
Don't you see the sadness, happiness and confussion in her stories?
Real and imperfect, she was simply herself
Writing full of love, a depressing story
Keep falling even though she already hit the ground
She's a burnt angel and falling into the poetry world seemd the only release
She's stillness in a world of chaos