Now a pen and paper have become my dearest friends and a person's ear can't understand what's broken and what I'm trying to mend, and it's been however long now and the realisation still hasn't crept in. Parting with my once filled ___ has never felt so wrong and I hate this hole I'm stuck in.
Release, release me I've fallen down a well, breathing stale air I've been confined to this damp hell. With my nails turned to flesh, I've tried to claw my way to the sun, but I'm a hundred feet down proving this broken heart has won.
And so I carve into the stones that make my hell with my best friends my words, I have no one to tell.
This is why I always think in ink.
And as I begin to write with the pen so light and as the indents grow my feelings spite and I've become an angry bitter man, with no one to talk to or who can understand, except this pen in my hand.
Release, release me I've fallen down a well, breathing stale air I've been confined to this damp hell. With my nails turned to flesh, I've tried to claw my way to the sun, but I'm a hundred feet down proving this broken heart has won.
And so I carve into the stones that make my hell with my best friends my words, I have no one to tell.
This is why I always think in ink.
And as I begin to write with the pen so light and as the indents grow my feelings spite and I've become an angry bitter man, with no one to talk to or who can understand, except this pen in my hand.