Elation feels a lot like the best looking most difficult shoe to walk in. Like, this shit makes the outfit but it fucking hurts to wear.
That’s my definition of happiness. There’s subsequently no me in happiness. Only penis (fist bumps boyfriend).
Moving swiftly along to the point of this blog post. There is no point, really, but I figured maybe the 1 person who actually reads my blog will wonder where I am and why I am not feeding them with a constant dose melancholic as fuck poetry and soppy stories about how I feel and how I was not born with the right parts so I can’t really fit into that puzzle piece. Sorry.
For that one person: no I did not kill myself. I am alive. I’m more alive and living than I’ve ever been. Turns out the trick to kicking depression in the balls is actually getting out of bed and uhm… *shudder* meeting new people!
Now let me answer that question you weren’t pondering but now realise that you were actually wondering about. Am I :
(a) telling you that the reason why I haven’t been uploading shit to my blog is because I’ve been happy.
“You mos can’t write about happy poems mos.” (Quoting someone- verbatim).
(b) telling you that I got a new job, met awesome people, left my new job for a better job, met MORE awesome people, have been busy as fuuuuuccccck and thus unable to carve out a little time to her blog 😦
If you chose A: OMG my writing spans all themes! Not only melancholic ones? I have happy poems too. I do, I do.
If you chose B: Congratulations you have won my affection for a brief period of time. A split-second to be exact. Pat thyself on the back.
So… Since my mind is a war… My “happiness” is supposedly “Mania” (according to my psychologist) but do you know what I’ve realised? I would choose this over all that crappy shit I feel. This is… Like bacon.
This. Is. Like. Bacon!!!
Here’s a poem about something whatever. K. Bye.
Did you know?
You don’t have to put your hands in your pockets to keep them from trembling?
Sometimes life is a long crawl out of the abyss.
I enjoy you very much.
I enjoy the way you crawl:
Knees never leaving the ground for long.
Bruised. Not given the chance to scab over. Bleeding.
Every thought you’ve ever had weighing down your forehead.
I enjoy watching you talk
to other people
The animation of your face
Those little crinkly lines that appear when you smile broadly
And your eyelashes fold to form mountain caps for your cheeks
I like watching your lips prune into each syllable
I gloat a little in my head thinking “those lips are mine”
I like watching you live
Seeing the sporadic flash of your dimple
Like spot lights
But somehow much much brighter
My mind is a little epileptic
I really like the sound of your voice
as your breathe beats staccato’s after each sound
It sounds like a rumbling tempest when I press my ears to your chest
I love watching you sleep:
When I am the closest person to you on the planet:
Witness your dreams flush across your cheeks*
“I’ve got a lover, he puts the shine in the sun”**
*Copyrighted poetry of L.S (me)
** Shine by Wild Belle