I hate the words that come out of my pen,
It's ordered and yet scattered,
Like the lego pieces on the ground.
I can't find the right words anymore.
I can't figure out the way I want to shape 'em up.
A peculiar feeling of emptiness is still there,
It stays hidden during the day,
But creeps in like a ghost at night.
The scars on my arms have faded away,
But I'm tempted to make new ones.