Morbid and depressing you say
Is all that I write
For me the words only leak
what it is I feel.
I am happy enough
Living my life,
Climbing over the heartache
And misery to find out what is real.
I wish I knew how to write love poems
With flowers and charm,
Poems about babies or
Even a limerick to cheer.
I write what I know,
What I have seen.
I write for to ease a
Troubled mind,
I write to try and leave it
All behind.
Yet in my happiness
with this talent i found,
the loneliness.
For though my critics have
No talent of their own,
Since my poems are my heart
Open and laid bare,
The slices cut deep.
