| inside my soul |
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Something to Explain Me
I could write forever
And yet never ease my pain.
There's always pain inside of me --
Always something
To make this poor heart scream.
I've cried an ocean,
Or at least a decently-sized lake,
And I've covered countless
Sheets of blank, lined paper with carelessly
Scrawled ink poetry.
For what?
But to know myself a little more,
And still be confused by the mystery
That is my mind and emotionality.
Sometimes, I wish I was someone less
Complex, so I could
Feel more content.
But no one's happy or
Simple or free.
And being who I am, feeling
All my passion,
Is what eventually makes me
Me:
A writer, a poet,
Doomed to a heavy soul.
I'm never content unless I'm feeling --
And it will be like that
For ever more.