I often wonder why most all my poems are about me. I feel selfish for thinking only about myself. But then I think...there is nothing I can write about better. When a poet writes about anything, are they not writing about how they feel. I rarely write in the second person.
Maybe because I try and feel what the other feels and write it as if I was the object on whom the life experiment was being performed....I think it fulfills me to feel another persons experience. And so I write as if that person was me...although I write a lot about myself also.

Explaining poems is on the list of my non-fun things. But I should because it makes me think more and maybe better the writing. So here goes.
Being a person with an unassuming and contented personality can have its cons. One of them is that people often think that you are not driven or dedicated or passionate about anything.
But such people often have very deep convictions about life. One of them is that they do not need to show off their love or drive for something in order to be successful. Another is that they find happiness in the more subtle realms of life....such as just being.
What good are the wants of life that drive other people (into the frenzy of life) anyway?
These are people with the blue flame....the people that look beyond life and at times its pettyness and seek to fulfill a greater vision. The person in this little poem is trying hard to understand this flame and fulfill it while it rages inside. The irony being: "But it asks for nothing, and I cannot give"

My fire

Why are you happy?

Must I answer? …..Because I am.

No, why? Truly?

......I have no answer.

Why?

Must I reason?

I am where I want to be

Why is it here that you and to be?

It is here that I want to breathe.

But… it is not what I want to be

The fire has fizzled and burned out then?

I want to be….nothing.

Of no consequence

With no reason, no cause

No beginning or end

Empty.

Is what I want to be.

Empty is where I want to be.

My fire, it has not burned out.

It lies there waiting to rage.

It lies in my nothing, in my empty shell

My blue flame, it stings and mocks me.

Because it asks for nothing.

And I cannot give.

It asks for something I may not achieve.

For I have tried but it is not enough.

And so I lay as if I am content.

As if my passion is lost and forgotten.

I am happy. I must be

-----Megha