He asks why I only write the saddest poetry.
He wants to take my pen with him,
away from my little dark desk,
and into his sunlit paradise.
It refused to move.
I might get too consumed with the sun's sparkle in his eyes
that I'd forget he's a ball of fire.
I know he'd just burn me to ashes,
with only the air to tend to my remains.
So, please no; just leave my pen be.
I write what I know; what I am.

***