Poetry is cheese?

It turns out that everyone has their own poetry. And the poetry that plagues my life is often sad, dark, and powerful.

It's funny that this is the case, because I am always happy, light, and really quite weak.

I think it's because everyday I look at myself and ask what I can improve. And then when enough of the bad has built up till it barely can stand on it's own, it runs.

Runs its way into...most often a tune...sometimes a melody...and rarely...a song.

That is why I think I am a happy person but I write sad songs.

I think, too, that sometimes my voice sings itself sad. The rest of me is so busy in rejoicing that my voice seems put down by its own longing for such a fulness of joy.

On occasion though, that joy which the rest of me feels steals its way out of my heart and through to my lungs. From there it proceeds up to my throat. When my throat falls captive, my lips are soon to follow. And then, all open together, I find my happiest, and my most beautiful songs. Songs that make me cry. Songs that I hope will make you cry tears of joy. Songs which flood your mind and your heart and your throat.

And maybe then a great change will come over you. Your mouth will open your eyes, and through open eyes you will see the things you love most about your life. And you will spend forever pursuing them. And it all started with music.

The Garden.

Autumn soon hides light's eternal existence, as new days shutter, Eden's arms neglect,

But men are that they might have joy,

And what greater joy than the mid february spring?

None, answered he, not at all, nor at length.

Autumn's son hides like every echo, and new days sing, Eden's arms naked.

haha. You don't know what that means, but I do.