Why is it so much easier
to write a sad poem than a happy one?
Well, I suppose a poem's like a scar
and happiness rarely leaves a scar.

I guess when I am truly happy
like, my-jaw-hurts-from-smiling happy,
the pen doesn't seek my hand.
If we were continuously and eternally happy
would there be any art at all?

A happy life would be terribly uninteresting.

This is a happy poem.
Not because I am happy
but because I am content.
Content with the scars I've earned,
content with the love I've lost
and the love I have found.
I have crawled in the shadows
and I've walked in the light.
Gray is only possible
if you know the black from the white.
I'll tell you a secret.
Never mind, it's mine to keep.
This is a happy poem.

their smiles and laughs surround me
energy drips from their teeth
but when the music stops
when their glasses are emptier than their wallets
each is without a home

they tell of the last time they were happy
the last time they loved something
the last time they knew they werent alone
each of these faint memories
revisited only as fantasies

dead presidents wont love you
and the night will never be your friend
her warm breath on your neck
will only remind you of the cold outside
his lustful grip around your hip
will only remind you youre still broken

i know youre lonely, i get it
but some cuts need more than a band-aid
some stomachs need more than bread
some people need more than people
i know youre hurt, i know youre lost
but i know youre loved
and i hope one day
youll know that to be true...

Using only her eyes
her secrets were poured out.
From beneath all the lies
her pupils did shout...

"Treated as a thing
never as a person,
all the looks they did sting
all their words abusive.
I flinch as they walk by,
a dog expecting pain.
Days I wanted to die.
Days I couldn't stay sane.
But you see who I am
not what I do or say.
And when you touch my hand
all those days fade away"

A smile on her face
her lips began to part.
But I cut her words short,
"This is only the start"

when he saw the nameplate
on his dull, grey cubicle,
it reminded him of an epitaph on a gravestone
sentencing him to a life
and death of reading e-mail

he would not be remembered
he would not be missed
but his inbox would never empty
and his boss would be ******.

Silent from his perspective,
but she, raging within,
gave him a glance furtive,
and in return he gave a grin.

Here there was a connection.
One felt never before.
No need for deception.
She saw his very core.

And conversely, he saw her.
Inside her heart, a guest.
Or maybe an intruder?
Time will tell best.

Unless...

Well, maybe this is different.
Staying with him won't cost her rent,
and when to him her heart is lent,
a safer place it couldn't be sent.

My thoughts, unable together to piece, are left
          drip drop dripping away no! no!
Scattered? Scattered discovery inconsistently applied
          and forgotten, yes.
They all go insane, Brothers of Icarus, driven on;
          please stop, too much; to ask that is.
The broken heart is blind
but the broken mind can't close its eye.