I picked up the pen when I had my very first heartbreak. I never knew I had it in me till I bleed words from the cuts of my heart. I was 18 then. Like vines on trees, my love for writing grew. Years passed and heartbreak seemed like a distant memory. More or less I started to feel the sunshine on my skin again. I started to live in the moment as I gently let my pen down. For I never picked up the pen when I was happy. Twirled myself into the arms of love, finally feeling like things were falling into place. He once asked me “among the pieces that you’ve written, have u ever written one for me?” “Yes” I lied. Months passed and our love grew till one day the little while lie turned into truth for little did he know that I only write when I’m bleeding.
Do you have a picture of Molasses? I'm so sorry.