I wrote for many years
I wrote about laughs, hate and tears
But now I don’t find anything to do
I can’t write anymore about you
I can’t find the words
Even can’t find chords
On the snares where I compose on with my father
Where I play on, under the grey weather
I can’t write sentences
Don’t find chances
To find beauty in writing with my pen
I even love more to count to ten
I can’t find my own muse
Don’t know how to use
I don’t see you anymore
And don’t count further than number four
I can’t live without you
Realised that you’ve got your own life too
I can’t write without
So I quit and get out.