This is a pledge to start writing a blog again.
I used to be there,
I was the flower in your poems,
I existed in every of the pages,
I was the one you were proud of.
But the flower seems to wilt by times,
As it is there, hanging, darkening, wilting,
It is waiting to be plucked and thrown away,
Or waiting to just fall to the ground and be forgotten.
Shakespears said that,
A writer’s beloved can never die,
That is because she lives in every of his poems,
And by that lives forever.
But I’m no longer there,
I’m no longer in my writer’s poems,
And by that,