Poems I write in the first person

Oh come, one muttered
I read your poems

You need a hug
Life has been cruel
Looking at you I could not tell
Always strong, so confident
Sparkling in vibrant colours
Hiding dark days and darker nights

Said another
Hideous dreams hidden in dank cellars
You must not be alone
I will comfort you
So come
I'll give you a hug
For you loved and lost
And were left at the crossroads
Unable to choose
The path that would lead somewhere
Anywhere
Except nowhere

Life was unfair
Said a stranger
Giving you rooms without doors
And  walls without windows
And no air
No air
Imagine that
You need a hug
So you can breathe again
And see the light of day
And the comfort of night

You've gone through a lot
Come so I may warm you
Said some
Who read my poems
It took courage to expose yourself
Bare yourself to the cold world 
Covered in nothing but your hair

There is comfort sure in knowing
That there are those
Who are more depleted than you are
Than I am
Than they are

And they are disappointed
Crestfallen
When I say with a small smile
That my poems are not confessionals
Nor autobiographical
They are not a mirror of my concealed layers
Or my shuttered eyes
Or a snapshot of my bare cupboards

That maybe my poems
Are simply a reflection of what I see
Behind covered eyes
Inside empty cupboards
Blank pages
Unwritten books
Unsaid stories
Unuttered fantasies

Maybe I write poems in the first person
When I sip your pain
His pain, her pain, their anguish
Their smile, their pride
When I see your desert
Her storm, his storm,
their storm
blowing in a barren landscape

Or when I see a vignette
With no image

Maybe
Life is not about me

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