Poetry burns in me, a raging fire,
A welcome guest, that I desire.
From deep with the darkness of my soul,
Its endless explanations make me whole.

I write sometimes in madness,
Optimistic, and in gladness,
About convictions in my life,
Emptiness...my wife.

With willingness in my heart,
Twelve thousand miles apart.

Like a blindman, I'm willing to see,
Yet still, there's no guarantee,
Wars' my present and my past,
Scars I hope won't last.

Suppression that I find,
Irregularities in my mind,
But now a sudden rush of new ideas,
Distilling all my fears.

Philip Lore

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poetry-123/