Nov 28
A poet’s ink is not in his pen but in his thinking. his ink becomes dry when his mind is dry of thoughts.
I am hiding in the deep abyss of the forest,
Echoing fiercely like a hungry wild beast,
I fall to my knees, begging for inner peace,
Words pouring into my empty soul,
So deep are my feelings,
My pain is huge too,
when I’m alone I think of you,
And the things you didn’t do,
Respect me, protect me, embrace and face me,
Whisper my name, and tell me I’m special. By Dorothy Maude.
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