I'm only happy when I write,
But the words only mutter their
Way out of my palms
When I'm downtrodden in the alleyway of self-induced tragedies
And the infinite pool of senile smirks.

I'm only happy in my utter love of despair
And despite all of the sweetness pouring out
Of my deranged pores
I'm only perfect when I write.

And when I write the syllables expose every fresh wound wandering with the whiff of sunrise.

I'm not sure how to transcribe a smile
Even when the hilarity ensues from within the depths of every over excercised drama lesson
From every corner of the televized reality.

I'm only happy when I write
Even when the soundtrack is overhyped and autotuned
To its very small inch closer to the grave of sanity.

I'm only happy when I write
Even when the wine has dried and morphed into a need to quench a thirst from a well of burnt tears.

I'm only happy when I write
On the overtime commute between
The verses overjoyed with the  euphoria of making the perfect pun for all what is faulty with the theories of competence and competition in elation.

I'm only happy when I write,
But I only write when the darkness of despair grows thick and wild.

The family's asleep
I, as usual
Try
To
Write
Something wise and profound.
As usual, I can't!
My mind
Is not that well excercised.
I'm not a writer anyway
But I like to think I am.

Where
Do the great poets obtain
Such deep insight and poetic
Phraseology?
I don't suppose I'll ever know,
For where they were
I
Just don't
Have a clue how to go.