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I use to think, I could eat on poetry
I had to move on to do other things
every night I was awaken by this aching
it was my heart, it was braking
torn apart, for splitting up with my passion
the fire went out inside of me
no matter how much I drank
it could not quinch the drought
nor could I figure out, why
I was so lonely and empty inside
I had to write like a smoker, needs a smoke
I had to write like someone with OCD
straitening a painting on a wall
I had to write like a prayer warior
need to pray, I had a pen and I had to
pen my way through, what I was going through
like taking a shovel and tunneling through
only if but once, to see the light
I always knew was there
