Sharp Objects/by:Haunted Lunacy
She’s full of poison /
and sharp objects, oh how I /
long for destruction.
The Poets Curse/by:Haunted Lunacy
The poets curse is to hold this pen, to write the words that hurt within, to weep alone and spill this ink, when all he wants is to cease to think. These pages stained with memories so dear, he keeps them close and pretends she’s near. Immortal words, his ink will flow, he can never truly let her go.
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