An empty slate, a single drop of grey;
the emptiness is here to stay.
Swirled together, the colored pain, it flows gingerly down the drain.
And with it, the happiness and the day.

In place of the color, grey turns to black.
The slate is overtaken, never to go back.
And what you’ve said, cause drops of red
to stop and fill up the cracks.

It doesn’t matter why we feel.
The slate is made entirely of steel.
Why do you insist on smashing your fist
until the pain, someday, you steal.

But facing odds, persistent,
You lift up your head, and hit it.
The pain was intense, and suddenly innocent
was the slate, shattered, and by the darkness, bit.