Nov 2016
Of what do poets write, when their muse has finally gone?
When they lose the girl they love, and are expected to move on?
Of what will my heart sing, when I can't sleep at night?
Now she's left me in the cold, and nothing feels alright.
When they lose the girl they love, and are expected to move on?
Of what will my heart sing, when I can't sleep at night?
Now she's left me in the cold, and nothing feels alright.
To the girl I never showed my poems, maybe if I had, you'd still be here.
