Days of suffering.
Years of pain.
They come to no end,
They bring no gain.

I try to feel good,
I try to write nice,
I try to understand,
But I am in a vise.

When people comment on
The things that I write,
They may say it is horrible
And they may be right.

They may say it's darkened,
And "Where is the light?"
I truly don't know,
But I do like the night.

I once tried to write
About bright things as love.
The poem that finalized though
Fit "melancholy" as a glove.

My greatest fear is that
I can only write 'bout sorrow.
I want to make people happy,
I want to create a heartfelt glow.