My anguish finds its way onto paper,
Like ants to dribbles of honey.
No pauses. No thought,
but an intrinsic pull
of pain onto paper
palpable.
Nothing to lose for all is lost.

My happiness is cautious.
It’s meditative and still.
It spills not out
Nor seeps through a crevice.
It searches long and hard for words
And I fear to speak it
For fear of it being lost.
It hides in its recluse seclusion.
I have everything to lose for all is found.

My words do not lend themselves
As easily unto happiness
As it does to anguish.
My pain is verbose,
My happiness; silent.