I've never written a happy poem
I don't see how people can
How could you ever spill your highs?
Or rip open the tenderness of your heart?
How do you expose something so valued?

I write poems from the darkness
The cold, damp place form which I dwell
I hold my warmth close, I'd never let it out
I'd hate to expose myself, and the light within

I treasure my own, rare happy
I don't share what is mine, then it gets broken
And I am already broken and worn,
So why share the light I have left?