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.