For all the want of greater men,
To hold their power as a pen,
To open history and write within,
Their name forever until the end.

It is the work of simple folk,
Who find themselves truly woke,
By flames of passion fiercely stoked,
That see their names remembered.

So to that end then no surprise,
That for all great men to arise,
An air of humbleness in life,
Must always tame those truly wise.

For all great kings can walk with men,
Of lower standing and think them kin,
And speak of things unknown to them,
Whilst keeping crown well-centered.

There you are old friend, I haven’t seen you since...how long’s it been? Doesn’t matter. You’re here again. So why don’t you pull up a seat? Please, it’s like you never left. Emptiness on tap, I cry until I’m deaf.

You thought childhood was bad? Well this **** gets worse. See I’ve been around the block now and I know how this works. You can cry as loud as you want if no one sees the hurt. And you get front row seats, VIP, for everything it’s worth.

But I’ve heard that it’s nothing, a token joke at best. This life that we’re all loving, is nothing but a guess. So don’t tell me that I’m blessed or that I have the best and biggest heart. My life’s a work of art but the canvas fell apart.

Here’s a piece for them and you, but I hate to break the news. A pictures worth a thousand words but mine aren’t any use. Since the day you left my side without a muse, my life’s passed me by, and I’m back to what I knew.

The gift in pens,
fit to ascend,
mere mortals to the mantle of the heavens,
has left me in a state of haste...to die in place of a goodbye that was never said.

And I’d say it now,
but no one is around to hear,
that could appreciate the sound like you.
In truth, my memories speak “I’m sorries” soft enough to make angles weep at what will never be heard...and my final words to you will forever be said regretfully.

Respectfully yours,
A memory.

Take a look at my history and it’s easy to see why I’m afraid of just being a bottle of pills sat next to a diary on standby, in case talking isn’t enough this time.
It all starts with the words “Don’t tell anyone else...”

Well I’ve kept up my end of the bargain. I’ve kept your secrets for you, hell I even took them with me when you were gone, and I’ll take them to my grave for you. But don’t tell me you’ll hate me, or that you’ll leave or walk away, don’t tell anyone else, but you will anyway.

Friends come and go, but please take the things you own when you leave.

Break in case of emergency,
Emotional uncertainty,
Anxiety,
A struggle with sobriety,
A squabble with the family,
Or something no one else can see,
When you need a friend for listening,
Who else to them,
But quiet me?

There are times when I doubt,
More often than I want to admit,
Whether it’s worth it to say I love you,
For the 100th time.
Because even though you’ve only heard it once,
You’re always on my mind,
And I’ve written 99 bad rhymes trying to figure out just the right way to say,
I love you.

But honestly, I feel like it loses worth the more we use those words.
From moment to moment,
Minute to minute, hour to hour,
The power of those words,
is found somewhere between often,
And never,
Just common enough to be delightful,
But rare in a way that a tactical box of chocolates and 99 bad rhymes are just clever enough to mean the world..

So I’m sorry if I try too much to make those moments perfect, but I want I love you to be worth the phrase,
And when I look at you,
I know that saying it was worth the wait.

Fanciful words fall upon a flighty pen,
If only in the moment before they are written,
This is the trial of the artist-no-more.
To know that their once treasured wordplay has failed them,
Shored-up upon the hollow recollection of an intangible dream,
And dried to ash in place of the passion which once drove them.

If all the stars in the night sky had suddenly snuffed themselves out of incompetence, we would weep..though not for those too far from reach of our eyes, the quiet ones would fade as they had always been, dimming, and forgotten.

This is the way the world views the dying gifts of a pen..through the lens of stars centuries old, still remembered in their passions. All else..forgotten by time, and destined to feel it more deeply than anyone else around them.