Months ago now, I'd sit and something half decent
Would appear on this screen, my sadness, my hatred
But most of all, myself
So what happened? I don't know, I can't understand
I can barely remember a pen in my hand
Every time I sit down, a cliche appears
An over forced rhyme, such as my tears and my fears
But I need you, Oh come back to me, my poetic love
My similies and metaphors too
Sinking into myself, is not a fate that I want
Just my writing, my dear, I want you
Those tears sometimes fall, but I have no inspiration
As though words no longer reside in my mind
I can feel them, near see them, but lo and behold
There is nothing, no feeling, no kind
I miss you, with every little atom that I have
Every cell, every nerve, every thought
For now I am but an echo on the breeze
A small cough in the silece, I am naught
