The hours seem to pass one by one.
It gets rather lonely, wouldn't you agree?
Music in bed doesn't seem to help anymore.
Going outside to be with friends?
Ha! More like hanging out with stress.
My only comfort now would be here.
Using a paper and pencil because pens tend to smear.
Let the pencil take hold,
Let your imagination run wild,
But where has mine run off to?
It seems as if my light had flickered off.
I can't seem to find any other purpose to write.
It used to be fun.
It used to be entertaining.
But my flame has run out.
And where am I now?
I'm sitting on the floor, writing another crappy poem.
