'How can I sit here,'
you must wonder
'and repeat all of the things
that have placed me in this cage.'

If I cannot change that
then how am I ever
going to live by a word
I only ever said
between my teeth.

I did not trust it,
so it failed me.
Now I do,
it is failing me.
The world carries on.

Chopin plays on;
I no longer enjoy him there,
because now I need him.
Unlike Chopin
I am no longer needed.

It is incomprehensible:
in and amongst the longing
to reverse those mistakes
which drone like wasps in each ear;
both stings reaching deep in to my gut,

There is still you.

Leave your intoxication.
Accept the few outbursts,
the many bouts of sadness.

Study how to prolong joy.
Keep it with you.
There are better things to forget.

Don't depend on the pen
for too long.
That is addictive self-reliance.

The guilty pleasures are fine,
so are the times when you consider
the deep, red bathing regime.

The way out can be appealing,
like the untainted skin of a late teen,
but they are better things.