I don't know why I struggle to write about the good things
Why does intensity only live in the darkness - the pain and depression?
Why is the grey of night so much more powerful than the color of day?
The whiskey is stronger after the sun has set, and the words much easier to write
"She wrote her desire for love on burning paper and scattered the ashes to the wind"
The words like silk from this pen, like the flow of a river
So why, when light tries to enter these windows, do I close the curtains?
The flicker of a single candle brings more peace to me than any string of lights
It is better to be in a place that forces introspection than one that breeds mindlessness
So while I still don't know why I find myself in this place so often,
I've welcomed it many times before and will leave the door unlocked
Come my shadow, dance with me in the dead of night, sing me to sleep