I need the paper,
yes to breath.
The ink thats spilled,
is what I bleed.
...
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well duh your a great poet and should take great pride in your work. And when I'm gone, they're whats left. To carry on after my death, the proof to show that I was here yes they will be... very good. Becca
Love it! Brilliantly and warmly expressed. Hits the spot.