• Someone once asked me
    Why a happy poem I cannot write.
    Why this book is filled with darkness,
    Why there's never any light.
    I cannot write of fiction,
    Or fabulous make-believe.
    Poetry's a way to express myself.
    See my heart there on my sleeve?
    I've never known true love.
    I hardly ever smile.
    My life is not a fairy-tale.
    I've been through many trials.
    Empty is my only friend,
    And misery surrounds me.
    I will not twist the truth.
    My stories are not of glee.
    I cry when no one's looking,
    Getting pounded by the rain.
    My work is not of fiction.
    I only know of pain.