Therefore I am, however.

I think most days I write poetry,

but it’s never good enough.

You can be so much more.

You say, you are much more.

As my broken lungs heal,

sadness leaks from my eyes.

If I am not here tomorrow,

who would miss me?

Some secrets deserve the whole graveyard –

I am not a good  or bad person.

I have order within my chaos.

When you love,

love, love and realize that

it’ll never be enough.

Which parts of your heart

feels the most broken?

I want to live there.

I want you to keep me there.

Until my hair turns silver-grey.

Which parts of said poetry is your favorite?

I’d like to rewrite your unhappy.

I’ll give us a happy ending.

Don’t believe in fairy tales? It’s okay.

I’ll turn your immortality origin story into an epic.

Kiss you back to safety, a forehead kiss

should feel like a million lovers

always trying to get the feeling back.

It doesn’t return, but I will.

I think when my depression cripples my brain,

it also plans to kill my body.

If I write enough poems,

do you think maybe one day

I’ll return to being happy?

That’s the thing about people like us.

We want to be happy so bad

that we often overlook the  small details –

happiness only exists

because sorrow permits.

I think most days I write pain,

it’s a good thing I hold onto one fact.

Everyday I wake up loving you –

you are my happy,

you are my enough.


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