Someone once asked me

Why are your poems so dark?
Why is your light so black?
Why is your face so sad?
And why are you so clad?
If you die tonight, would you be glad?
To give your life up, and raise the white flag...
Do you seldom feel like to pack your bags?
Just up and leave, because your life is a ***?
Do you do these things because you miss your dad?
You feel a little bit close to him as you write about death on your pad?
Do you think you deserve less than you've had?
Or you think your good will outweigh the bad?

This someone never felt the need to know the answers to this questions
This someone knew the answers, hearing them would be like a priest hearing his own confessions
This someone wasn't a he, this someone wasn't a she
This someone was me