What becomes of a dying fire when the embers are long forgotten, burning alone in the dark? She burns as bright as the bluest shade in a flame.
Lately, poetry has taken a front seat and I've found myself pushing my WIP a little to the back. (Not too far) I use to write back in the day, in hidden journals in my room or during class in high-school. The words would just come and stay trapped in my head until I set… Continue reading Poetry to me, are spilled thoughts. Each word feeding my starved soul.