When a poem bleeds more than the poet does, the poet has nothing left but the pen and paper through her heart. Carved through the stones and painted beautifully on an empty canvas. Dozens of words have already gone through the pavement where it slowly drips through the cracks and bleed for the second time. The fragments were taken away by the wind, making it bloom wherever it lands. A poem collection by yours truly. Disclaimer : I'm really not that good at poetry so please bare with me. You may also encounter typographical and grammatical errors. I haven't edited and revised my poems yet.