Time and time again,
I never know what to give.
The winter season is here,
There is little to nothing for one to hear.
A writer dwells in my heart,
Ideas swelling in a black cart.
Where is the sense in this,
Where is my true love's first kiss?
And as I sit here now,
Waiting to know the where and how,
I understand that I must give,
If I want to continue to live.