I've wanted to read a happy book
For quite some time now
But every time I crack the spine
Of a book with a grin escalating steadily,
I find that the stories that make me happy
Are the same ones that destroy my friends.

And I've wanted to write a happy poem
For just as long
But my hand always stalls.
No one wants to read about love and tenderness
When they're suffocating in their own right.