The Writers' Circle

Some say all poets are depressed, 
and I am a poet I must confess. 
The pen, the paper and the desk,
My mind, my heart will never rest. 

I would try to deny you my words. 
But to deny my love is so absurd.
I wish to have the freedom of the bird,
And forget what I knew I heard.

I try not to think and sit, 
But of course my tireless mind is lit, 
Each time I think of you it is a hit,
Ashamed of those darling words I writ. 

Why do you let my heart unhinge? 
A battered, beating, beautiful thing.