Modern Romanticism

If I was never a poet,

Pain would be so easy to feel.

If I was never a poet,

I would not care to see the outline of your face

Embedded deep in memory.

If I was never a poet,

I’d not have fingers to press buttons

Merged in the emotions, where I let tears fall.

If I was never a poet,

Love would not be the sun,

But the moon,

Beneath where I always weep.

If I was never a poet,

I could never wet my cheeks

With the streams, the rivers, and the creeks,

That I’ll make into imagery for the poem.

Love once held a candle to me,

And it was to see the page,

Where I had used tears for ink,

While the wax always melted

Into a different shape.