sitting by the table, pen and paper in my hand
but the pen is doing nothing and pages they're all blank
as i recall september when i said it would be fine
now i'm drinking in the a.m and i'm running out of time

fighting with the words, i'm getting sick of melodies
and the rhyming never really felt like a priority
while i'm sure there's many better stories to be told
ones of broken men and alcohol are never getting old

it went straight to the bottom of the list
small letters so easy to miss
fine and forgotten till i got to the bottom of the list
the bottom of the list

never really bothered, not a single little line
i've been keeping myself busy on the sofa drinking wine
see i'm easily distracted when i'm aching to the core
never felt this uninspired, never felt more like a chore

overwhelmed by the size of the task at hand
and you know i've done everything i could
to avoid sitting down with a paper and a pen
and my heart in the open like i should
i wish i could

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