I lay curled under a willow tree
Who's there? I say not looking. See.
My eyes are blank. For sight is bare
The world is black like my stone coloured hair.
Who is there? I say with a plee
As I lay curled under a willow tree
I wrote this poem when I was ten. You'll see why, when I start the story
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Lost
This journal is about the story of my life, along with some of my chars life.
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