Paper And Pen The same old story it happens again, He grabs the paper and uses the pen, On the paper he unleashes his thoughts, let's them go, Tales of sadness and stories of woe, Scrawling of sitting in the wardrobe as a kid, Trembling amongst the coats as he from his dad hid, Awaiting the sensation of a lashing from a belt, He took the thrashing for the effects of whiskey his father felt, At the age of 15 he ran away, Nowhere but on the streets to stay, Shelters and soups day after day, Although his #life improved his feelings did fray, Corrupt thoughts and emotions inside, Possessing no morals by which to abide, He writes on and on to escape the sorrow, He writes every day, yesterday, today and tomorrow, Now you know his story here is the twist, His wife's face is the paper And the pen is his fist.

It's Cold Outside It's cold outside And the frost clings to my window pane, The floor is dusted in white, Like the top of a Victoria sponge, The tree branches bare icy lumps, The birds aren't out to sing today, For their feathers would meet an icy treat, I lay in my bed of sorrow, With my aching heart I lay, Lay with salty tears trickling down my cheek, I feel paralysed with longing, For your embrace and warm assurance, For you to stroke my rose pinched cheek, To intertwine your hand with mine, A tangle of fingers and thumbs, But here instead I lay alone And it's cold outside