There's nothing I can really own, 
I ache at something that wasn't mine; no memories to recollect and no sound of voice that I could memorize, not even a light could stay within. 

And even the sky changes its color, it doesn't even own the stars.

Desiderium

Poets seem sad to me
Because we feel more
And we hold on tight
And when we hurt, we write

Our tears fall on paper
In the form of words
Thoughts in scribbled ink
As our hearts begin to sink

Other people's pain fades
And drifts away with time
But a poet's hurt will stay
There on the tear stained page