This pen is my weapon,
The words I use to tear away from abuse,
With every night that passes,
I'm left more soulless than before.

There's no escaping,
I might as well make it good,
While I can.

I can't write a word without telling myself,
"Where will the time go?" I say,
"When you're wasting your words on ten sheets of paper." I cry,
Time doesn't matter to me when my heart is free.

There's no escaping,
I might as well make it good,
While I can.