All that I have created?
Empty words.
They flutter about my head on gausomer wings.

In,
and out,
and all about.

Four months of thought?
Only on flimsy things.
Significance has been too rare in my life.

In,
out,
none about.

Is fear or appathy my greatest enemy?
Both dampen my emotions.
Thick wet blankets placed on my tiny flame.

On,
snuffed out,
nothing about.

How does anyone bear this weight?
Existence is massive,
And we are all Atlas of slighter frame.

Life,
filled with doubt,
pressure throughout.

I find poetry hard to come by.
Prose hidden under tangled tongue and translucent thoughts.
I won’t look at them, straight in the eye.
Know them for the truths they are.

My eyes are covered, and so you are not there
and neither am I.
Playing peek-a-boo with life’s lessons,
when I part my hands,
uncover my eyes,
and stare you down,
will I see with some kind of clarity?

Or will it be like staring out a foggy window,
passing your shirt sleeve over glass to wipe away the droplets,
only to find the mist is on the other side of the pane.

If I had any sense, I would turn and run.
But when did happiness start depending on sensible things?
And when you try to answer this, don’t mistake happiness for its less attractive sibling: contentment.

You can take your sensible sentiments of contentment,
and shove it.

Happiness I starve for,
and will strive for.
Contentment is the less savory meal
that fails to satisfy and nourish.

To some it is tolerable.
But I will tolerate the ridiculous,
combat sorrow and hardships of all kinds,
for just a morsel of that dish we all deserve a little bite of.

I will seek you out with a smile,
Happiness,
until a piece of you is mine.

It ate me down to the core.
Like a child eating an apple for lunch.
Biting through red waxy skin,
Gnawing away at the white crunchy innards,
Leaving only the stem and seeds.

Normal functions were failing,
Starved,
but the smell of food drove me to sickness.
Exhausted,
And yet so very awake.
Happy,
But tears always came before smiles.

Pills.
Like tiny white seeds of hope,
Plant them and what will grow?
A garden where the trees bear fruit?
With a thick bed of grass nestled in the shade?
A place where I can rest and eat and live
in peace.

Or will there be weeds?
Will the trees bear fruit,
But only that which is dry and tasteless?
Is the grass patchy,
Filled with thistles and small thorns that *****?
Does the shade hide a cloud of gnats that will buzz in my ear?
When I am so close to sleep,
Will all I hear be their clamor?

These thoughts come back to me as I lay in the shade,
Eating the magnificent fruit,
And swatting at the gnats.
You have to take the good with the bad they say.