What will I do with this mad Poet of mine?

Sure, for a while I will forget my sorrow in your arms,  you fair-haired child with big wild dreams.
But do not ask that I let loose
All the emotions I just freed
From years of caged nightlife,
when they stood huddled up inside
that narrow dark cold cellar, not knowing day from night or sun from moon,
not daring to dream that freedom would one day arrive,
each one held tightly by the one close to it
and yet not sure it was not all alone.

Sure, I'll let you see a little of me, you wild dreamer of irreverent happiness,
But do not ask that I dream with you,
All those sane dreams of passionate youth.
For my wounds are not yet healed, nor know when they will be,
inside this mind that will not let them out, nor give them rest from the tormentor still.

Because the sane one tells the darkness "Go away!", but there's the Poet who wants the hurt,
who thrives on misery and loneliness,
and I can't sate Him, he's wild with rage, with madness and hunger.
And He keeps screaming for Hell to be let in.
What will I do with this mad Poet of mine? Dare I drown him in life and drive him away?