I don't know how to write happy poems because I don't really believe in them. I thought angst would die with adolescence, but alas I can still feel its cold dint.
Perhaps like virginity this goes too; no longer a creep standing idly by. Plastic smiles taped to our cardboard faces and yours alone I felt the need to prise.
That's okay, because the teenaged rosebud that we claim to be so very unique is beginning to wither, can't you see? And now it's the thorns society seeks.
So look out over yonder cityscape. Your mask shall be shed only by the moon. Until then, a cartographer of love; yours that is, we'll still pathetically swoon.