You start in my heart, nostalgia carries you to brain, you fall into my blood, bursting through each vein, you seep into my muscles, bounce across my spine, you rush to my fingers where you most like to spend your time.
You pick up the pen for me, push her against the page, you hate what’s pure, you crave the chaos, so you move my fingers like a train without lights rushing towards darkness. I let you ride, to fight you…is useless. I let you move inside me, creating your page with mayhem and confusion.
I’m fiery, but when you’re inside me
we are the electricity running New York City.
Pen to page, your heart inside my spine, creating rage, drawing out pain that couldn’t be saved, suffocating passions while exploiting hidden talents. This isn’t me writing, this is you, the passion that keeps you…
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