The day I stop writing
do not turn me into a weapon.
For even in blood,
I can write.
On the blank page,
etching the syllables of silence
I can still write.
The ache of life,
the beauty of the world
weaving both into letters,
I can write.

The day I stop writing
do not turn me into a weapon.
For even in blood,
I can write.
On the blank page,
etching the syllables of silence
I can still write.
The ache of life,
the beauty of the world
weaving both into letters,
I can write.
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