If a poets weapon against the world is it's pen,
then why couldn't i help you?
why can't i write about how that night you got on that last bus?
why can't i write about how you lived happily ever after?
why do i feel so helpless?
why can't i fix it?
whats the point in me having this as a weapon if when i wanted to use it the most of all,
the ink ran out.
whats the point in poetry when all it is,
is words on a page?
