Written by Emily Harstone | September 21, 2017
Give them sand or prepare ur end
Flowers bloomed from the innocent’s pain.
His daughter’s flowers smelled of innocence.
The flower bandit prepared to strike.
Feeling the pulse of a poet.
Take my hand, and these flowers.
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Give them sand or prepare ur end
Flowers bloomed from the innocent’s pain.
His daughter’s flowers smelled of innocence.
The flower bandit prepared to strike.
Feeling the pulse of a poet.
Take my hand, and these flowers.