I am sad. Upset like spilled wine on white,
like a stomach doing laps. Sad
like an old lady left standing on a tram,
sad like a child with a sweet smile
who will never learn to use it.
Sad like an empty shell, like the people
who die alone. I am sad like
Sarah Kane and my mother
at their darkest thoughts.
I write poems that astound people
but it's nothing to celebrate because I have only
ever done that when I felt the way I do. Undressed
and naked from the happiness I genuinely feel,
left staring at whatever is left over.
And everybody else is staring at it too,
unsure of what to do with it,
like a fish out of water flapping in their palms.
Everybody knows, and I still
don't know why I am typing laughter
at every sentences in conversations
- like it makes a difference.
I am sad because I have no reason to be.
I am sad and I feel like I am imposing it,
and I feel guilty because of this,
so I get even more upset.
So I remain sad.
Sad like the way he looks at me
like I have shadows in my eyes, like the way
they try to place a contagious smile back on
my lips because my mind is
overworked and out on display. I am sad because
I do not know when little things like buses and
light banter and the lack of skins
for my tobacco started getting to me and I
don't know which junction to take myself away from this.
Sad because I don't know when the left overs of myself
began to matter more than my entire being.
Down like a basement tenants
never use, like the bottom of a mountain,
the centre of a cave.
It is obvious.
What isn't obvious, is that
I am happy. Despite all that, I am happy
like the sun, like the father
and son having lunch together, like
stumbling upon a sentiment you once
thought you'd lost. Happy because
I have somebody to wake up to, to
love and to comfort. Happy because I can
still feel like I am alive. Happy because
I am alive.
My mind is at its darkest but
my soul is still light - where do I go from here?