Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember what it feels like to be happy.
The last time I saw that emotion I was putting it in a Box to store away.
The memory sometimes emerges from my head,
but is quickly submerged by the growing darkness within my own mind.
I will remember those days of a smile always being on my face,
and soon black tendrils come to darken the moment.
I still have the Box that contained all my happiness in my room,
It haunts me. But I adore the Box.
I adore the thought of my happiness still existing somewhere out there.
That Box used to mean the world to me,
but now it only torments me.
I want to open the Box and remember the joy I once felt, the love that was stored away.
Although I could always do that,
I know doing so will drag me into more darkness.
So what should I do with the Box?

She of molded clay
Fingers trace the wooden ***
Poison whispers sweet

Two rows of seeds
Gift wrapped in ***** of mud
Two I had planted in pots
In a month’s time, I remember
I plucked a few lady’s fingers
Lovely the produce
Soon they faded
Gardening and growing vegetables not my forte
Love plants, but tending to them and nurture
Not what I can do
So I further gift those seeds
Where they are nurtured and nourished
And the fruits and vegetables
Well produced

A box
to contain you;
stifled identity.

Haven from anarchy,
labelled as social construct.