I close my eyes,
And still I write.
I go to sleep,
And still I write.

It hurts so bad,
When I can't write,
It burnes my heart,
Please, help me, Might.

And still I hope,
For it to stop,
And still I try,
To hope and hope.

My fingers burn,
Within my soul,
The fire starts to heat my mind,
It bruns through hearts of love and might.

And I don't care,
And this I know,
And for this I'm prepared,
I've known this long ago.

To write it means to hold a pen,
To write it means to write again.

For me it means to think, I think.
For me it means to live.