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Sometimes, people
burn with unquenchable misery
And live wrapped in straight-jackets
that were sewn to custom fit
by unseen, sexless hands.

Other times, other people
(or occasionally those same people)
burn with a beautiful passion;
with the weightless wonder of a God or a Goddess,
with every plant that breathes,
and every creature that sings ecstatically of its own existence.

Either burning can become a subject for literature.
Inexplicably, those writers that write of love and beauty
are often ignored;
considered frivolous or superficial by
those who read and write of hatred and pain.
This sometimes causes the beautiful writers consternation.........

But the issue, for me, is this:
The burning misery
always happens to me
And the burning happiness
is always happening to someone else.

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