I can go weeks
deteriorating in sadness,
and fill thousands of pages.
Yet in happiness,
the paper lays blank,
ink tips run dry,
focus is lost,
inspiration flees,
and the poet rots.
And for this
I blame you.
you have healed me,
too well.
you have loved me,
too hard.
you have held me,
too tight.
truthfully,
I was once broken,
now fixed.
I was once shattered,
now whole.
l was once lost,
now found.
So why does the poet rot?