I remember when you would preach to me how the meadow captivated you each day on your bus journey,
but now that same view elicts just your eyes to skim an empty gaze.

But the meadow is still the same,
it hasn't changed and you are still on the same route,
so why do your eyes not widen like they used to?

It's now just a fading charm but once a view synonymous with beauty,
a kind of fascination desensitisation,
the magnetism weakening with each meeting.

So now it's just another meadow,
and therefore darling,
         i'ts not your fault you're now just another girl.

I'm drawing inspiration from the negative,
my attention biases towards certain phrases,
they leap out to me and I thought by now they'd be the ones to represent happiness and hope;

But still internal unrest is at the forefront,
And I still feel incongurance.

Because to relate to the positive I may as well take a syringe to a dry sponge,
I draw nothing but air,
but I guess at least im drawing now and that's progress.

But there's only so many times I can ventilate the same air without questioning,
why my head magnetises certain stimuli in a world so far from bare?

I can't explain, but to use optimism, hope, love and success as my muse feels unnatural, it's strained,
l am unworthy of it.

I let my mouth take the lead,
bypass my brain so I write how I feel, it flows without me.

And maybe its a Fruedian slip in the form of a sentence,
but im scared if I slip too far i'll drown and in my sponge I will suffocate.

So I speak without thinking let my brain take the stage and im back,
back circling the same topics again,
maybe in life I repress them and this is their escape I just dont know.

Because when I write about my excitement for the future or how I dont want to leave your arms or how you personify comfort I feel obnoxious,
 I feel niave
What is it about me that feels so uncomfortable,
so exposed,
so vulnerable,
to say i'm happy?