They tell me to write what I know.
Pen out the feelings inside.
Well I’ve been holding this quill and smoking all night.
And I think that I’ve already died.

It’s like reaching into a vase.
And finding nothing is there.
Cold blind hands scraping the walls of nighttime in a bottle.
What’s worse is I can’t even care.

So I put the vase outside to soak.
And watch it grow cold in the sun.
In the fall it fills of death, in the summer it’s colors will fade.
And sadly no where to run.

A moment unknowingly waits.
This vase will surely break.
From water and mud it came, to ash and dust it’ll be.
It suffered for sufferings sake.