We are outcasts
Children born into dark
We listen to music that relates to us
We try to stand up and make our mark

Everyone thinks we cut
Or that we are depressed
They joke around and say mean things
Think we worship Satan and try to bless

But that's not who we are
That's not all we do
We cry, and laugh
We can love too

Yes, we may cut
And we may want to cry
But all you think we do is
Wish that we could die

The girl that loved  so hard,
She ended up to be  broken
Yet so loving still

Nothing is happening...
I may have lost my ability
to form words.
Still nothing is happening.

My pen is empty.
My fingers tied in knots.
My tongue has wrung dry.

When will it all being anew...
I ask.
When nothing is happening,
with this heavy block crushing my hands
of any progress I might have brought into the light.

All because nothing is happening,
when you have The Writers Block.