The night grows old and another day is born.
I stay still on my bed, stirring my mind slowly.
Asking questions, this and that, why and what.
Can’t blame the heart for mentioning your name,
Remembering how you might have burned me.
So I grab my pen and paper, and I start pouring out.
How angry all these months have made me.
How confused all this time you’ve driven me.
It is my fault for being a kind friend,
Yours for taking advantage.
And I write a song about you,
On my secret blacklist notebook.