Ever since from heaven she fell,

Far away from me she chose to dwell,

But that has never stopped me or weakened my will,

I'll keep writing till I exhaust my last cell,

But though she always says that  I write so well,

I still can't get through her heart, not even with a powerful drill,

Every time I tell her smt nice, quickly she'll run to her shell, 

Sometimes I wish I can get inside her and scream and yell,

I do, and one day I will....till I get through that heart made of metal, 

I know my words mean nothing to her and that they'll never ring a bell,

What she doesn't know is that only because of her I'm able to excel, 

And because of her, one day, I might easily win the prize of Nobel! 

And that when she is not around, the whole world becomes null

So let her dwell in her shell, and let the whole world burn in hell.

I only know how to write,

A poem for her every night,

My aim is  just to bring her … a small piece of delight,

I don't know if that's sinful, or if it's morally right?
 
All I know is that she holds my heart like a flying kite,

A kite with a long string that she holds so tight,

She lifts it up, pulls down, steers  it left and then right,

Although it's  painful, although  it breaks my heart, 

I feel safe, because I’m sure angels don't know how to bite,

I won't even ask her to let go of me, I won't even fight...

Cause it feels so wonderful, even though she is far away and out of sight,

She's like a sister, yet we barely ever fight,

 Her soul  is light, bright, just  like a morning ray of light,

When my days go darker she's my only source of light,

Whenever she's away, absolotly nothing feels right,

But I know she's busy with a schedule so tight,

Yet,  all I need from her is a mere second  every night,

I know someday our souls will gather,.. if not on Earth, then at a different sight

Or maybe they'll never gather,  or maybe they might!

I can't ask her to love me, I don't have that right!

But all what's importan now, is that she adores what I write,

That's why I promised to write,

A poem for her every single night.  

P.S.

You are  probably saying “Noway it could be him who wrote that!", or, “How could he write stuff like that?”

My Answer:

Because of you, my dear, the spark will, on its own, ignite.