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.