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Melancholy Stars

I don't really read my poems to other people,
But my sister seems to like them
So I take the time to read them to her.
She supports me.
Says I should start a blog
Or publish a book.
But also, she says they're all sad.
Why not something happy?
To be honest, I've never really tried.
I only write when I'm sad or angry,
Because all other times are so fleeting.
They don't last long enough to sit and write,
And besides, what would I say?
There are only so many words to describe
Being happy.
The right ones don't come to me.
When I put pencil to paper,
I write what's real, what I'm
Actually dealing with.
Guess I've got that in common
With Nathan Feuerstein.
I write what feels right in the moment.
I write so people can maybe start
To understand a fraction of my emotions.
Happiness isn't generally included in that.
Even before the thing that nearly ruined me,
I had a hard time finding the spark
That creates a real smile.
(I had to specify "real"
Because so many of my smiles are fake).
Now, I'm not sure it's possible.
I'm not sure when I'll feel happy
And not expect to crash back down again.
I don't know when I'll find the right words
To create poetry out of elation.
But when the words fill my brain
In a cacophony of poetic chaos,
I'll put them to paper,
I'll read them to my sister,
And I'll smile (for real).
But until then, my words remain
Melancholy stars,
Dim in an infinite sky of sorrow.

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