The story of you is a tale of woe—
I collected her things, all safely been stown.
When we first met, my mother taught me to sew,
and with your blood, I must let her go.

Empty promises,
from an empty girl—
with a grin she’ll say
“I’ll give you the world!”

How is this “joy” question
the hardest to answer?
I could spit hundreds of verses,
and still read hundreds fancier.

I have no way to see joy—
besides the elusive glimpse.
Each night, under every moon,
the freedom of no job to do since
the long-gone high expectations vanished,
leaving my smiles drawn from circumstance.

Joy escapes me as a runaway train,
while you can find joy in things—
from which— I’ll politely abstain.

Nothing good ever
happens to me.
Perhaps it’s a
self-fulfilling prophecy!

Ah, what a life for me!
Everything and nothing—
both to the extreme!