Hands Soaked In Ink

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I love the way my hands sway. My blood not red but black and grey. My paper and pen upon a wooden stand; my pen breaks, ink soaks my hand. Sitting inside on a warm summers day, while the laughter of children and the smell of food does in the air it s...

I love the way my hands sway. My blood not red but black and grey. My paper and pen upon a wooden stand; my pen breaks, ink soaks my hand. Sitting inside on a warm summers day, while the laughter of children and the smell of food does in the air it stay. My black stained hands drip upon my floor and its echoes resonate out of my bedroom door. I love the way my hands sway. My blood not red but black and grey. My hands hang over my kitchen sink. These hands soaked in ink.

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