I try to let these words I speak come to me
bloom out of my fingers like someone long ago planted seeds
hoping they would flourish out of me
so I could write everything you need me to.
But this heart holds more regret
and these eyes have seen more destruction
than any garden could possibly uncover.
And see that's the trouble
the only time my fingers feel at home
is when the tragedy masks the happy
and the depression nooses it way around my neck
turns the whites of my eyes red and makes me remember
the reasons I started writing in the first place.
I'm a little too close to happy and I wont ever get there
I just reach out my hand to touch it
and it runs back to it's save haven
as I run back to mine because I fear what I may find
in the dark of the night-
the silence of this room is my impending destruction
is my masterpiece and my corruption.
Its my sin and my sanity in the same exact second
and I've used that line twice now but it's the only way to describe
how I am constantly crying on the inside
crying out for that happiness that runs away when I touch it.
The happiness that wouldn't even remember my name
if I did in fact learn to love it.
So what now?
These hands hold on to the idea of becoming better
and these fingers write it out like an apology letter
but you remind me time and time again why it hurt to be lonely
and I knew I would never truly be happy.
I learned that the day someone started loving me
and it somehow still wasn't enough to ensure my insanity.

When you're running down hill, you have to keep pace-
keep running while keeping your balance so you don't trip
land face first into the dirt and wish you would've just crawled.
This life isn't born to be crawled upon
so run, run as fast as your feet can take you
towards the places you want to be
towards whatever the **** makes you happy
because who the **** wants to be me
hanging on the edge of the cliff clinging to anxiety
but I wouldn't change it for a ******* thing
because this, this is my normalcy, this is my version of happy.