I am afraid that I cannot write
A happy story⸺imbued with light.
For even when I write about the stars,
My words find themselves within the scars
Of rivers of darkness, twinkling in empty space,
'Til their story exacerbates their sullen place.

I try to weave tapestries with purple prose⸺
An overflowing, flowery, vivacious dose
Of happiness so sweet that it sickens some,
But its essence so undeniably wholesome.
Instead I end up with a mockery, an artifice.
Second-hand, failed attempts at artistic mimesis.

Perhaps I am made for singing the blues,
Of unraveling sanity, and turning screws loose.
And though what tragedy, this bleeding heart can be,
Perhaps merry will be the soul who finds solace in me.