I don't know if I shoudl write better for this age or not, any way, read the poem and tell me how old you think I am..
A sheet of dying rose petals,
Fell upon her face.
Her heart was a bush of nettles,
She used as a hiding place.
A head of auburn waves,
A hand of ivory bone.
Love is what she craves,
No longer to be alone.
Eyes like dewy pits,
And a soul of none but lead.
Emotions cut up, cut up into bits,
Several directions to head...
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