It Lives In Us All

My brain is blocked off by this wall, and if anything, I can think of nothing at all I'm trapped from my own mind, with nothing but the wrong key, I'm caged inside myself, where I'm anything but free So I pick up a pen, new leaf, and I give in, where I don't need a cut to bleed, all I need is emotion So I bleed, and I bleed, until the ink runs thin, then crumple it up, and start over again It's like my escape - my outlet you could say, a feeling that you have to experince, because it's impossible to explain It's like you're free again, you're finally sane, where you can fit an entire sculpture into one little frame The world is outside of you, and you're alone with your thoughts, everything is blocked out, and you're content in your spot You can write a whole story, with a little or a lot, or you can just write, with no goal, at all But as long as you're writing, nothing could be better, you feel like you're alive, and you could live forever And then you run out, or you lead goes dull, the feeling is short lived, but It Lives In Us All