She wears her ink on her wrist, a symbol of love...of once was, of what is to come...she works in ink...everyday a new word, a new sketch, a new line.
Her hands were inkstained most days, she was the artist...the messy girl who had tainted fingers and a smile on her face. She got lost one day, many years ago...forgot the way to the cross roads, wandering in the dark. I found her, one overcast morning, sleeping beside a grey rock, huddled alone. I draw a heart on her cheek, ink stained face...she awoke...eyes filling with liquid emeralds.
Burn a fire in her soul, and she will come to life. Stain her hands with ink, leave a sheet of blank paper by her feet, and let her dance all over it her heart.
I am the original inkstained girl
xx C
Her hands were inkstained most days, she was the artist...the messy girl who had tainted fingers and a smile on her face. She got lost one day, many years ago...forgot the way to the cross roads, wandering in the dark. I found her, one overcast morning, sleeping beside a grey rock, huddled alone. I draw a heart on her cheek, ink stained face...she awoke...eyes filling with liquid emeralds.
Burn a fire in her soul, and she will come to life. Stain her hands with ink, leave a sheet of blank paper by her feet, and let her dance all over it her heart.
I am the original inkstained girl
xx C
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