I will not write happier poems because you enjoy them more.
If I force it I will hate it.
And if I hate what I write I will start to cry.
And we all know how messy that can be.
We all know how you hate that.
You have three emotions,
Witnessing any more than that makes you ill.
Completely
Socially
Ill.

Puts his pen to paper
For one last goodbye
Will try his best to say it all
In this his final write

He'll address it to his loved ones
And those that know him well
In hopes they'll take it all with ease
Though there's no way to really tell

He's written about the ups and down
The ins and outs of life
So what is on this lonely page
Should come as no surprise

He's always felt so out of place
Even in this poets world
At one time was his saving grace
That no writings now can cure

So he puts his pen to paper
His beginning and his end
Never doing him any favors
Both as enemy and friend

All he can think to write
Is I've simply had enough
As his very last line for the very last time
Is written out in poets blood

Lost in the sands of time
I see, myself reading and rereading
The silly notes, the feeling poured out
On the leaves of the book
I still hold dear
I still feel the pain
The loneliness
The rejection
The silliness that is attached to
The feeling of a youthful heart
The heart that skipped
The stomach that flipped
Stays steady with the warmth of your touch
Thanking the Supreme for the turn of events
Thanking the pain for the fruits I enjoy today
For the person I am now
For the life I have lived, shared and loved.