Creativity
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She has pages bonded to see one anotherBy the threads of her heartstrings.She has fuel for her happinessSomeplace or other. I love her with all of my wingsTo spread her warmth across her battlefield.Love is breaking her apart,Though she finds it more to mend. A history of one womanIs as the broken stars and the
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I have forgotten what it meant for her to stay alive. I have forgotten what it meant for her to keep trying. Love was once the ground for her to walk upon, though it has collapsed beneath herself. She bleeds tears to create the roses, with dew to drop off petals into the ground. Pain
Modern Romanticism 