rust that flows in my veins I write to you dear friend
The color is blood, but does not flow as well.
becomes jammed, scratched and then hope that everything will still not feel bad.
A little 'annoyance, perhaps.
a nuisance that becomes habit.
"Write what you know" they say.
"Why do not you write more?" Ask.
Why I rust in the veins and the words have now been scraped from the streets wind and water from skin and pass there by chance. Why I donated
life that I look it without knowing what to do.
For all I knew was suddenly dried under new eyes to the sun and it was not the powder.
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