Disclaimer: Yes, I'm in a poetry mood. No, that has nothing to do with the disclaimer or the ownership of Harry Potter. Because Albus Dumbledore and all other characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

Author's Note: If you haven't figured it out yet (and you didn't read the disclaimer,) I'm in a poetry mood. I don't really know why. So here is my third set of poems- ones about Albus Dumbledore. And I was told (and I agree with this) that one of my recent poems was more like a monologue than a poem. That's the problem with free-written poetry. So please define this for me: is this a monologue or poetry? That way, I can make a fic strictly for monologues so I don't crowd up the poems. Um... anyway, yes, this is not a happy poem. Maybe I should pick a happy character to write about, instead of guilty old men, lonely werewolves and hardened, confused potions masters. Wait a second... this is Harry Potter. There are no happy characters.

Troubles of a Worried Soul

Pouring out the troubles of a worried soul.

When everyone turns to you,

You're all alone.

And you understand that it's necessary.

Maybe you shouldn't have done it. But then where would the world be?

Pouring out the troubles of a worried soul.

Here is another who needs to

Understand.

Understand. Everyone wishes to do so, when innocence is far more rewarding. Understanding is harsh.

Pouring out the troubles of a worried soul.

It would be nice to pretend.

Just once.

No time for pretending.

"Albus," they say. "What do we do?"

How do you crush a person's dreams?

How do you destroy hope?

How do you let a soul fall into despair?

Might as well kill them now. It would be kinder.

The wise man and the young child.

The wise man is wise.

The young child is happy.

Then reality comes in, and the young child is dead.

And the wise man is left, alone.

Pouring out the troubles of a worried soul.

The jug that always refills pours water into the teacup.

And the teacup is so small...

Do I kill them?

Do I kill the ones I love for a blind man's purpose?

Do you think I might die happy?

It would be nice, to die happy.

It would be nice, to end this life.

I am tired.

Weary, moving from one to the next.

But my purpose is not over.

Maybe soon.

We cannot lose hope. But it is too late for that.

There is only deception and blindness, and keeping the hope in others.

"There is still hope," they think.

I give hope to others...

I keep none for myself.

Pouring out the troubles of a worried soul.

The jug that always refills pours water into the teacup.

And the teacup shatters.

I killed them.

The ones that died.

And there will be more yet.