Why are poets always sad?

I’m tired of mundane bullshit.

I want to talk about life, music, purpose, ideals and eccentric thoughts –

raw conversations, deep emotions.

Get a coffee and talk about the symbolism in our dreams.

Go to a park and let me join your internal debates.

Take a walk by the water where we discuss life’s purpose.

Drink wine by a fire and reminisce about stories from when we were children.

And when I say I want to talk, what I mean is I want someone to listen.

I have these thoughts in my head that stay stagnant.

Poor things never see the light of day.

Only when I remember

to jot them down on paper

to reference back to later.

Fantasizing about being able to express these things

without judgment or weird looks

that make me regret even saying them.

To be loved, they say, is to be understood,

and I think I’m misunderstood a lot.

So can someone please explain to me the complexities of those words

before I run from a possible reality

I’m not ready to face?

a woman with purple hair and a pink sweatshirt with her back to the camera walking away in the midst of a field of flowers, surrounded by pinks, reds, oranges, and yellows. Tall vibrant green trees in the background with rolling hills, contrasting the baby blue sky with white puffy clouds. Image for the poem, "Why are poets always sad?"