You see the ink of this pen was pain, it was all there was to feel.
Bringing shade and hues to a painting that was being lived in black and white.
I said you were my muse and yet the ink ran out:
I had no sorrow to write about.
I didn't need prose or couplets or stanzas, just the knowledge that when I'd wake up you'd be there too.
For life may make beautiful art and writing, but it's the living it that makes it so inspiring.
Yet now this salty ink flows again, but I don't wish it in you too my friend.
Because the love that I felt too, means I only want the happy best for you.