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though blind he could see though healed he still bleeds though it is over he still grieves though he is torn he proceeds though young, he still leads though memories fill his sleep
I'm unwritten like the sun in the sky and the breeze in the air a pencil and paper may speak for me but only I can write my future I'm unwritten and Independent.
the sun beats down upon my face i ignore the bead of sweat, or was that a tear? staining my cheeks like running watercolor
The words are in my head But not on paper in ink. Forming oh so slowly, It makes it hard to think. I grab a piece of paper, The pen is in my hand, But why I am not writing, I just can’t understand.