The pen ; her outlet, the ink pours out the pain held inside, staining tee piece of paper with her disastrous lifee. Becomin her personal art gallery, though you could not see her pain even if yuhh held her up to the light, you wouldnt be able to envision her bright wounds. Its like her own code, like a wall of isolation she built to preserve herself frm thosee who intend on intruding. Nobody knows who she is. Shes a randomn act, an uncontrolled element.
August 11, 2008