Poetry Time
When my heart becomes
a scratching paper,
It is time.
When my veins, my blood,
become a tools
to create a line,
It is time.
When my mind’s arrogance
Bows to my delicate imagination,
It is time.
It is the time when,
The ink dries,
The words vanish
And the spirit born,
To create the line that ever lies.
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