Greetings artists and dabblers. I suppose I should offer some
explanation: a villanelle, for those of you who do not know, is a rather
difficult form of poem. Some might call it a nightmare. I decided to
give it a go and I don't think the result is quite the worst thing I've
ever written, so here you are.

Lager on the Brain

The voices in my head make it impossible to think,
Haunted by the questions of an age that's passed me by.
Fill my flagon, Sam, for I could use another drink.

A jolting laugh that echoes and drives me to the brink
Of dark insanity. My plans have gone awry.
The voices in my head make it impossible to think.

All that's left is mystery at which I sputter and I blink
Back the tears that I could never bring myself to cry.
Fill my flagon, Sam, for I could use another drink.

But then a soft voice lifts me as deeper in I sink,
And suddenly the light of hope begs for one more try.
The voices in my head make it impossible to think.

I shake off clouds of pity, black as writer's ink,
And leap into the future as a lark into the sky.
Fill my flagon, Sam, for I could use another drink.

She comes to me seductively and queries with a wink.
If only I could master sober thought I would comply.
The voices in my head make it impossible to think.
Fill my flagon, Sam, for I could use another drink.



Penned by my hand on the 24th of Scarlatan, in the year 398 AF.