Aren't we just the saddest things,

Our stories seldom told?

We search for something that satisfies

More than fame or gold.

Born into this world of lust,

I've traveled alone this far

I keep my memory in my pocket

So I've been coined The Memoir.

"Memoir, Memoir", they all call to me,

"Tell us how you live this life!

For we haven't figured out quite yet,

How to manage without strife!"

But, alas, I keep my head low,

And answer not a reply.

For I know I could not console them,

Not even their softest cry.

I am just a simple writer,

My woes go down in pen,

And that's what makes it so easy

To pick up and live again.