I ran out of verses
They are all... spent
Of things of love and life
All things are... said

And is there a saddest creature
That a man who wishes to write but can´t?
Words trapped inside him like a prison
My own jailor, without the key in my hand

And they wish for freedom
To escape the torment and the silence inside
But in that silence they die
They die...
The words die...
They die alone...
Every death a cut...
To the mind...
To the will...
To the soul...
To the mind and the soul, the guilt that was brought
If only I could have written it before!
I could have done more!
So many stories! So many feelings!
No more...
And the corpses of words
And the messages they had
Rot to form a mire
A putrid, fetid swamp

Maybe something can be salvaged
Yes, maybe something of worth
lays hidden in the muck
Is it worth rescuing
Or let it fester some more?
And the mud keeps growing
Swallowing everything of worth
And it saps the will of writers
Like a pipe with dirt is clogged
And it´s blotted, and it´s roars wishing to be free
But again, they are denied their wish
Warped of the thing they used to be
This words...
They are no longer verses...



















They are just ****