The criticism? I'm 13?

the image is to be a wooden ballerina in a music box, reach, expected longing for the light switch the light on face chin made of wood with rose, to rotate on their toes needle. A broken doll with splintered skin as she dances with a painful place. A lily-white sky of perfect Have hands, her silken thighs carve oak. A perfect figure of the day illuminated countries to wrap it in a paper jacket. So sweet and small, the ticking Melody, the measurement of its silent heart. The heart, that embraced a fallen moon, to sew up the sunken earth art. To stretch your neck and long for light to slim Spy and the leather stars. Your fingers dripping with sleeves so tight you pull it poured from wood grain. A sugar-soaked mouth to drink the sun, I see the eyes to tears to leave. Her slender heel that can not be executed hear the melody it with pointy ears.

Pretty good for 13 years. You have talent, with his Stick

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