By day, and by night, i sit and i write.
Thoughts of love, and pain, thoughts of wonder and of vain.
My heart is what i write, every day and every night.
I fight just for the hope that i can write all that i can tonight.
But even the fight is not enough,
Nor is the warmth of your caring touch.
The pain and anguish have hurt too bad,
And i cannot help but be sad.
Thoughts of you pull me through, but not for long.
All i know is that my writing has to be stong.
Just to keep me holding on.