I don't feel like a happy person.

I don't feel like a happy person.

I feel like years of yearning would feel, grasping at dreams in the daylight.

I feel like guitars strumming, ghostlike.

I feel like wasted space and blurred lines, the weight of a song deftly moving in my head.

I never want to allow anything to hurt me again, I could promise. I want so much to walk the large, well-lit autumn-rimmed clear haven streets and not look back, always with destination. I am an artist not creating, I stagnate. I run.

The crying thunder breaks my fears into bugs and mud, it seeps through and out the pores and cracks of my skin. Somehow when the world decides to off you, a good night of sleep doesn't quite feel like the solution. How can I sleep with death swift under my eyes?

Confirm the beauty in my lack of rendition, and the galaxies deep in the creek of my dying summer heart.

Why are the night and day so different?; and do they have to be?

There's nothing tangible anymore in the seatbeltless buses of the south province (that's where I'm stuck). I crave one thing, but I know it's only a gap, a void I'm trying to fill. I can't stay here anymore is the only refrain that made sense to me when I sobbed it out loud.

So good riddance to my selfish fears and my hypocrisy. Hello new world, I am yours and you are mine.