There are nights when I cried so much I thought I'd wilt,
That all the colour would drain from me,
That all the life in me, all the air in my lungs
Would escape me and I would just stop.
Like an old clock, I would stop ticking.
People would still look at me and find me useful,
I'm sentimentally valuable.
But I am never to work properly again,
Eventually, they'll stop looking.
There's always hope.
I hurt so deeply, I hope I wilt.
I'm not a poet, but a heartbroken songwriter. I hope this will suffice.
— The End —