“I just want to create things - even if nobody cares”
She shapes her world with honesty, a subtle sort of sorcery. Not all who met her walked away, a few were ever meant to stay. She doesn't seek the noise they chase- her soul is shaped for slower pace.
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She craves the shade where mushrooms hide, where fragrant brews and time collide. She loves the red that darkness keeps, the night where golden secrets sleep. In tangled woods or glowing screens, she finds her place in in-between.
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She binds the void with practiced grace, a spine to hold the empty space. On paper's skin her visions creep, in lines that whisper, dark and deep. The pigments dance and stake their claim, no canvas ever leaves the same.
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Her quite hands move endlessly, each crafted thing a mystery. She sees the worlds no eyes could trace, each word a door, each line a place.
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Beyond these lines, much more could be, still, this poem's about only me.