Even if the door is open for me
I wont go inside
Unless you let me in

Some people are
the poets
who fall in love
with every shadow
on the wall
and every flicker
of a tiny
burning
flare

Some people are
the poets
who drink coffee
dark as pitch
and they press
their candied lips
against the
armor of a pen
who translates
tales

And some people are
the sparks
the light against
the ocean
the little bit of air
that blows the flame
into existence
when I blow it
out again
because I always
blow it out again
and need
the gesture
of
your soul
to light the
fire that
raves in
me.

The problem with my sadness is that I cannot explain it
to anyone.
It is so quiet, so subtle, a reminder in the back of my mind,
a gloominess overlooking all time,
and in its quietness it is unbearable,
unsharable,
a pain all my own.