No. I am not O.K.
And I am going to cry again.
I tell myself the beauty is here inside me.
That she is not the source of all life,
that the depth of my love speaks of my beauty, not hers,
that all the wonder of her I put there. But it doesn’t help.
Truth does not set me free.

I have come to hate happy people,
they with their smiles and anecdotes of families and their lives.
How hateful they are to me now. How impatient I am with them.
Happiness has many bedfellows.
Unhappiness sleeps alone.

Welcome back to gravity.
I ate and napped accordingly.
The afternoon proceeds at a slow pace.
Soon will be gone this space of time and another appear to be filled.

Line up the lines.
Keep the same words;
rearrange the meanings.
Go ahead. Write a poem.
Make yourself sad.

Its just a poem.
Poems are just words.
Words are just heartbeats pounding at a stone.