It seems like
every time I sit down
to write,
to draw,
to read
the only thing that
happens
is that my soul
begins
to
bleed.
And sometimes
when I
watch the world
pass me by
I just
sit down again
and start
to
cry.
But that's nothing
out of the ordinary
to
me.
Only my voice
won't work
anymore
and I can't
shed a
tear
for
myself.
It's not
my choice,
but my heart
is now
stone.
Not gold, but
rock
even though
metal
is
just
as
cold.