why can i not write happy poems
about the snow falling from the sky
or the bird on the tree outside my window
about the sunset in the morning
or the mountains in a far away land
about love and joy
or peace and serenity
why is my passion only fueled by the pain of the past
my pen only dances to the somber tunes
of a piano playing in a darkly lit room
with a window where the sun barely peaks through
so close yet out of reach
it’s warmth not reaching the cold nimble fingers
that glide across ivory keys
the ones they have come to know so well
from years of pouring their soul
into music never to be heard by another
only by the pen of a poet
one with a lot to write about
who also takes the pain in their soul
and makes it into art