A/N: I wanted to post this because I actually like it. I'm sorry, but I don't think that J. K. handled the Sirius issue very well. Harry spends most of fifth year very moody and pissy because of Cedric's death, but spends hardly a month on Sirius dying? Can we say no? Anyway, a poem I thought would fit his reaction.
People tell me they know how I feel,
but that cannot be right.
I don't know how I feel,
only that everything is less bright.
Ever since that day,
the one where Sirius died.
I haven't felt much of anything.
I haven't even cried.
It's like someone took my insides,
and pulled them out of me.
I am neither alive nor dead.
I can only be.
The only thing I can feel
to show me I'm not dead,
is horrible, painful longing
that fills me up with dread.
I need someone to help me,
pick me up off the ground.
Someone who is willing to lose me
when I don't want to be found.
I want to warn you now.
I'll never be complete.
This war has room only for winners,
and Voldemort likes to cheat.
I'm sorry to be a burden,
but I need someone to care.
I'm stuck here at the Dursley's,
and nobody does there.
A/N2: If you could please review, it would help. I need the feedback to know if I should post again or not.