I console myself with poetry

So I console myself with poetry.
Not rum, or another meal.
Or Ketel one, which taunts me
with its conveniently unbroken seal.

I console myself with poetry
and art on the side, with a heavy beat
some elitist pride will surely heal me,
some elitist stomping of the feet.

I console myself with poetry
but words only seem to disguise the pain.
And cause me to feel quite dull inside
when I'm this emotionally drained.

I console myself with poetry.
Inebriated naps just can't cut it.
A cut does, however, seem a must; I'll
add to the scars there on my wrist.

I console myself with poetry,
with my veins, to write my heart-
because to see a friend, a lover lost;
witness a finish without a start...

I tried to console myself with poetry
but it just plain didn't work.
These words now scrawled have been my last...
my vision's begun to blur.