Who am I but one who writes the words which melt hearts and souls, who wishes she knew more of what her hands wrote - whose depth is love's most shallow purpose. Who are you that you should care so much and show such interest in me when I think I'm not what you wanted - not what anyone sees themselves with... I am an ideal - a poet - one in touch with myself, my soul, and my heart - one who wrings the sorrow of my life daily, who curses myself hourly and can't find a way to fully cry. The age of my soul is disputable, but my ache I feel - the ache I have always felt grows less sharp with you, so I begin to love - blindly - hoping to be loved back, scared not to be... But I love.
