As days come to a close, I wonder what the people who read my poems wrote. 

What did they think, what did they write, did anything in their mind create a spark in the night?

These things I know not, but it is something I had sought, from peers I got little,

Just that it was cool and that they didn't know the meaning behind it, not even a little

That's what I got, but for those that read it on their own time I think not,

Maybe you think more, maybe your thoughts soar, maybe your mind is light,

Maybe your mind is darker than the night, maybe it's like mine, maybe it used to flow in a straight line,

I can guess for ages about who you are, but for all I know you think like they did, or not

But I know now, but I'd like to know, who is it that reads my life with sorrow? 

Who is it that reads more than anyone knows? Who is it that reads the tales of lives old?

Who is it that scans the words I type? Who is it that wonder of what the meaning might?

Who is it that thinks they know the puzzle? Who is it that things it's still a jumble?

Who is it that hates whatever I write? Who is it that disregards that my words are written in a dark light?

Whoever you are, I'd like to know, but I still will thank you for reading my words regardless if I know.

You may not be many, but you are you, and I'd like to think you truly do read my words, I really do. 

Not all are great, not all are bad, not all rhyme perfectly, not all are entirely sad, but what is your take?

What is your line? What are your words? Oh won't you make them into a verse?