I've been writing for as long as I could remember,
my hand have never felt weary,
pen's have never run out of ink,
but it seems that my heart's turning cold slowly,
with each stroke and curve it started to shrink.

How could I write when all I feel is numbness?
When every single part of me is a complete mess?
I would never lift my pen if I don't mean it,
I would never disrespect poetry like that.

So tomorrow, I've decided to write my last piece,
and I don't think I'd probably miss,
for when tomorrow comes I'll read this afresh.