We like to dwell in our sorrows,
thinking there will be no better tomorrows.
This late-night passive aggression,
that seems like every poet’s obsession.

Oh why can’t we choose to be happy?
When the colors are grey, to see beauty?
Why must we feed each others' depression?
That the world is ugly, full of suppression?

I now choose to look a little deeper,
seeing “pretty” does not make me weaker.
I choose to look for a different perspective;
I know it will be hard; misery is infective.

But I know that I have a choice:
To feel sorrow or to rejoice.
I’ve lost chapters to grief and sadness,
to realize and continue? Now that would be madness.