Author Information
~Workaholic~
Folder:
Nov. 07 Nothing of love can become of this heart
It is nothing but a progressive work of art
Writing till my hands are calloused
Thinking till every thought in my mind is bled dry
There is no room for the emotional side of me
Cannot let a soul inside
There is nothing for them to hold onto
Just a bunch of cold, frozen organs
That have gone uncared for for so long
and everything else is dried up
From the constant work
Haven't slept in weeks,
There is too much to do
Cannot affort to waste time sleeping
Some days I don't bother eating
Unless itis for extra inspiration
Got to continue writing
Need to keep working
because without it I am nothing
Because I have nothing else
