Tuesday, February 1, 2011


We all have a story,
But we hide the pen.

Lives as clean as the paper,
Impressions more than ink.

Pretending to pretend,
To hide what's inside.

What is true is different for you.

So many steps over looked,
Voices fade a face remains.

The snow reminds us of where we have been.

Time always turns into something new,
Memories lost in what is found.

A heart breaks but never makes a sound.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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