Does a poet write only when he is sad?
Doesn't think so
But have heard so

Does a poet write only when he is upset?
Is writing a way to escape
From the world that hurt you a little too much?

Does a poet write only when he is depressed?
Why is his happiness not penned down?
Why is his prosperity not shared?

A poet doesn't write only when he is sad
All feelings, all happiness, all emotions
All of this is written

He writes when he is happy
He writes about the nature
He writes about everything and everyone

Poems are not always meant to be sad
They contain hope, love, peace
And so much more

How can I even explain how I feel

I've known him for years,
because of him I've drowned in tears
because of him I've sinned and lost my peers

everything changed within two days
and now I just wanna see everything in a blue haze

I somehow see a strange sign
why are we always associated with one another?

no matter how far we drift
somehow there becomes a shift

what will happen next?

Do you know that tiny feeling,
That starts deep down in the dark hole you call a heart?

That feeling of a candle flickering before the darkness engulfs the light it sparked.

Do you know that growing feeling,
That starts to fight its way to the surface?

That feeling of a hollow space in a vacuum being filled with light, intensity, air, beauty.

Do you know that entrancing feeling,
That starts to show itself to its surrounding bodies?

That feeling of your lung's alveoli once again grasping at the air particles that have crawled their way in through you throat after a deep exhalation.

Do you know that burning feeling,
That licks at the objects surrounding it with magnified intensity?

That feeling of a fire eating at its surroundings with the heat of a thousand suns and the sounds of a million thunderclaps.

Do you know that mortifying fear,
That starts from the surface and crawls its way in, destroying all with beauty in its path?

That feeling of not knowing what'll happen next, at a time where information of the future is what keeps you grounded and fed with the emotions and senses of being alive.

Those are all the feelings of loving someone.

As I lie here
With eyes closed softly
I think deeply of you
And I inhale stars
The scent of twinkling light
So fresh and alive
Sparkling gentle inside me
And I want to write this feeling
So tentatively
As it must be
Like writing words on bubbles
Delicate and precious
Begging them not to disappear
Like dreams in the morning

                                        By Phil Roberts