I CANNOT WRITE AND MY MIND IS AS EMPTY AS THIS HOLE INSIDE MY SOUL.
I HAVE GOT TO ERASE THIS CHILL IN MY BONES;
I AM TIRED OF BEING COLD,
BUT WINTER IS MY FAVORITE SEASON
AND I HATE THAT MY MIND STOPS WORKING SOMETIMES,
BUT YET IT STILL REMEMBERS TO HAUNT ME
WITH ALL THESE
THOUGHTS.
I WANT TO WRITE, BUT I CANNOT BECAUSE EVERYTIME I DO MY HANDS SHAKE AND EVERYTIME THE PENCIL HITS THE SHEET OF PAPER I HEAR NOTHING,
SO I RUN AND HIDE
FROM NOTHING;
MUCH LIKE A NIGHT SKY ON FIRE. I WANT TO WRITE, BUT IT SEEMS MY MIND IS TIED
TO MY HANDS BEHIND MY BACK--
AND NOW THERE ARE RED DROPS ON MY PAPER.
ALTHOUGH, I THINK
THAT IS ONLY THE INK
FROM THE VEIN
INSIDE OF MY PEN.
I WANT TO WRITE SO UNFATHOMABLY BAD,
BUT THIS RED INK IS GETTING INSIDE OF MY EYES.
WITH THAT BEING SAID I AM FORCED TO SAY,
goodbye.