"sometimes, the poem has more friends than the poet."

And I kind of find it beautiful and I kind of find it sad
But at least the poet has his pen.
When all else has left
He can look across all these version of himself
Scattered on the floor,
Across all these pages.
Maybe that's why he writes,
To give tribute to all parts of himself,
All the damage he has endured,
Or maybe he just writes to feel less lonely,
Or he writes because he just has to,
Like one has to breathe.

Whatever the reason may be,
I'm kind of glad,
That when all else has left,
An artist still has his art,
And it may not be much,
But it's at least not nothing at all,
Maybe his works are a result of all his pain,
A consolation price for losing more than he has gained.

A pen might might not always be mightier than a sword,
But sometimes it's all you need to get through.

There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.
I am an aberration, as you know.
I never promised you a villanelle.

You cannot trap the ocean in a shell.
You feed the roses blood to make them grow.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.

It does get bumpy on this carousel.
The ride is all extremes of high and low.
I never promised you a villanelle.

I was the aberration, you could tell.
I ******* my neuroses in a bow.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.

I think it's safe to say you know me well
in all my many masks, but even so
I never promised you a villanelle.

Let me pin my ragged heart to your lapel.
If it's truly what you need, I'll let you go.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.
I never promised you a villanelle.