I am...

Apparently,
if I were a poem, I would be
Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII:

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

in which there is no I or you
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close

I was somewhat suprised because I thought I might end up being Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?

Why does my heart
Feel so bad?
Why does my soul
Feel so bad?

The weight of world bears down on you,
Yet you already doomed yourself by walking into quicksand.

-- Ever have that feeling? I feel like that right now at 12:12 am on a Wednesday.