His story was over.

His story was made of what he chose
He took all the thorns for just one rose
He has been through alot ,scars on his hand shows
But still every morning he strikes with a smiling pose.

He tried to hide because he was afraid of his abnormal love.
He covered his skin full of scars with a glove.

But love is a thing to play with luck like poker
It’s wasn’t a thing to hide it’s a thing to take the booze of and not being sober.
Love is the prettiest hangover.
Tucked away in his wallet, a crumbled letter the last piece of love leftover.


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