Looking at pictures reminds me of the good parts. how I use to capture happiness in a jar. Sealed like a pasture. Gated on guard. Protection from being killed. Now rapture has spilled. Escaped the closed ring. In flows constant, unrelenting sting. Crows picks at my heart, it pumps. Innate ticks, timely arts. But it dumps blood into only the bad parts. I try to get over this crud. Sight is the one fleeing I don’t miss. Even still I can’t see the light. It hurts but It won’t quite break me I  Am resilient. Which has become more consequent than welcomeu