They call me a lone wolf, and I've stopped correcting them.
The world sleeps and I wake. In the deep hours, when nothing is left to distract me from myself, I open the blank page - that white canvas, that unforgiving snow - and I bare my soul on it. Every word I write is a truth I couldn't say out loud, an inspiration I couldn't hold in.
Solitude isn't my wound. It's my ink.
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feathergirl97
Sep 29, 2019 03:37AM
New Story that I will be more focused till I have more ideas to other two.Please read it and tell me about your opinions. https://www.wattpad.com/story/201346296View all Conversations
Story by feathergirl97
Under My Tongue
There are words we hold under the tongue. Not forgotten - kept. Pressed down and carried, sometimes for years...