I sit down with a pen and paper

All fire and determination like the pages of old letters,

ash; once burned with that fire when love ran cold

This love is something for the books

And as those words rang out a light flicked on.

So there I was sat with my pen and paper but much like the problem of a painter with no paint the thoughts had fled my lips, my mind, leaving no trace

There was simply no way I could write a story with this much color in black and white.

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