Would‘ve written an epic, an ode or some such,
Or jotted a story, an instance, too much?
Could‘ve written stuff endlessly, and gone batshit crazy,
Or jotted biographies, for memories are hazy.
With pain in my heart and a hole in my mind,
I travel through streets with fellows unkind.
My window, is misty, don‘t know what‘s out there,
But it’s futile since i know, there‘s nothing in here.
Would write a memoir for excruciating, maddening pain,
Would measure them in units, justifying loss and gain.
If only i was conscious, if only alive,
If only i had you and my paper, my pen.