This was written when my writing, was all that kept me sain.
My world is a canvas, The people pride and paint.
My heart beats like thunder, Slowly growing faint.
The rose catches no tears, the thorns have no soul.
My feelings are my thoughts, and I have no control.
Slowly going crazy, Quickly growing old, like a bad
hand of cards, I am ready to fold. My heart and soul
ache, this pretty smile seems so fake. Sometimes I
wonder if I am really even awake, or have I already begun
By: Charline Moore