He has got nothing to say, he has an empty voice
Where is his muse that stays up all night?
Where are those beautiful pieces he always write?
For sorrowful moments fill his cloud nine
Life is full of what he doesn’t understand
It’s that simple but difficult to comprehend
The thoughts of a sorrowful writer
In whom everything is void and hopeless
Lest he forgets, he can be everything without a pen
He finds love to quench his anger unwavering
Nowhere to be found, a still heart to find
And he would continue to act like he is drunk
Not until someone picks up the call to listen
To hear of the folklore stories that touch
Even if they have no sense therein
At least it must be said to ease the provoking heart that