the plains flood
soggy as bogs
thick as fog
I sink into a hole
in the ground
like a bowl I'm round

as I walk
white as chalk
the sun balks at drawing me a light
and like quicksand
I'm swallowed by the night

till I’m nil
all is still
and doesn’t move
no stars or moon

after the rain
the pains flood

I breathe in deep.

And yet you keep
having me chase
the next as if a lungful
wasn’t enough.

Once I asked a question,
Why do we write poems mostly when we are sad and not when happy?

I think I get it now,
Happiness is a sweetness,
Which can be shared.
But unhappiness is that bitterness,
Which we tend to keep within ourselves,
Everyone understands sweetness,
But bitterness has its own variation,
Which isn't known until YOU taste it.
So we rely on our ways to express it.

pain Is inevitable,
Sometimes if we want things to get better,
We need to embrace the pain.