Depressed are my poets
because they lack the marketable skills
of my singer-songwriter friends
who, though they are still poets, at least
can play in a band or be staff writer
at some boring record label.

You know the place, where
good art goes to die.
It’s stripped and beaten,
forced into some man’s pocket book,
which consequently gets shoved
into the pocket of his sports coat.

But even the poet doesn’t get
such awful treatment.  No, the poet
puts out a few lines to be read by who?
No one.  That’s who.  Just a few other
lonely writers on a forum - that’s who’s
interested in poetry these days.

It wasn't your fault at all
I didn't know who to call, But
You were still in my logs

Always think of your face
An animal I couldn't tame, Yet
I know that nobody's to blame

Working on making it better
Know that it only gets better
I might never let you go
You always make me better
Help me out, under the weather
I might never let you go

I didn't know how to do it
Guess it's only true if the shoe fits
Can't we just watch a movie?

You always think I'm a player;
Got some things I ain't said yet.
Do you really want a relationship?

Working on making it better
Know that it only gets better
I might never let you go
You always make me better
Help me out, under the weather
I might never let you go