I sit and I write, with nothing to bare
of pointless talks and purposeless dares
I now write of things, both good and bad
of memories, of people, some happy, some sad
Never the money, not the things that you gain
You cherish your peace when you live through the pain
I speak of my deeds, of unspeakable sins
of fires that burn-up the pyres within
I write of stories, known, and some still untold
Of starless nights, some lonely, some cold
I speak of this moment, some still stuck in past
some rushing through life,some racing too fast
Of beauty, that beauty, that words even fail
I speak of a ballad, a lover's tale
Questions, that silence may ask of you
Of answers that lie,and some which are true
My own convictions, now breaking my fall
I speak of everything, yet nothing at all.
