I try and paint a picture of what happiness looks like to me,
but for some reason it always comes out blank.
I try and use my poetry to describe the feeling of what I want my happiness to be,
and I become confused and the words jumble into nothingness.
I sometimes see this as a sign that I was never meant to be happy.
That my happiness is subjected to become something I could never understand or apprehend.
I grew up thinking happiness was for everyone.
I later learned about depression and found that everything was a lie.
My friends ask me what makes me happy,
and the only thing that comes up is the idea and concepts of what happiness is,
but I never can say what my happiness is.
I know I want Love,
but
does
Love
want
me?

you,
and me,
we are,
unified souls,
simply, united,
an unbreakable set,
underway, sailing,
like ship and sea,
this two-way street,
you,
and me,
we are,
us. [one].

A writers mind is a splash of fertile paint upon a wall.

We shake the brush and sit and watch the living colours fall.

You catch life
one tear at a time
to one day
fill an ocean.

i looked down
twenty three stories

tears in my eyes
legs shaking

every intention
of falling head first

you see— i was just so tired
of having to land
on my feet

My memories are fading
My life is but a petty existence
My mind is foggy
I can't feel a thing
I can't think clearly
I have to be coddled
So I don't accidentally hurt myself
This is just an episode
It will change
I'll be myself
Perhaps tomorrow
But not today
My life continues on in the distance
Like my life is a movie
I feel so empty
I feel so useless

"boy"
Once there was a boy
Who stood in front the mirror
For so long he drowned
He was gasping for air but
No one saw him but himself

twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace

what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart  contents?

hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic

mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips

with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?

later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity

from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat

her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;

I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally

rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,

sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,
which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies


5/29/17 i
12:43pm