For me, this poem is more of an echo of the wild clamor in my heart than a formal writing. Poems are like that. They are indeed echoes of the writer's soul, the whisperings that the world can hear if the author wants to open up and share the turmoil within. Turmoil can inspire, as can heartache, pain, loss, fear, and love. Love. Love is that indescribable thing that humans can feel, can experience. We are blessed. Even though it can hurt terribly. Even though your love is unrequited, or perhaps more of a dream than reality. I listened to my heart and wrote this poem. It's not T.S. Eliot or Keats or Wordsworth or Dickinson or Whitman. Of course not. No, it's just the [perhaps silly] musings of a girl who doesn't upon up much except when she's typing a story/poem. I almost didn't submit this poem, because it is the murmuring from within my soul. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. I can't. But since this is a "writing website", here I give you this silly little poem. Anyways, enough with the philosophizing.