why is it so hard to be happy?
we look at the ashes of our triumphs
and then smell the gasoline on our hands
and realise we were the ones with the matches
and we were the ones that tied
cinder blocks to our legs
and decided to go swimming.
why do we have to look at the cemetery,
read each name on the stones,
just to realise we're holding shovels.
no matter how warm it gets,
the nights are always the coldest-
we're sunshine by day and the moon by night,
hiding our tears behind the dark veil of fabricated facades.