I didn\'t write a poem today because today didn\'t have meaning.
I didn\'t read poetry
because it felt like I already had.
I felt still,
and unseen,
misunderstood,
but viewed.
I didn\'t want to write because I didn\'t have a unique metaphor,
and I didn\'t have a unique feeling.
I got in my head telling myself,
It\'s only good when it\'s first.
And it\'s only viewed as pretty when it\'s labeled original.
And I didn\'t try to take out my pen
and scribble words that couldn\'t be said.
I didn\'t try to breathe in
because I was sinking,
and breathing felt like it would only make it harder.
And trying to talk
would just give me a headache.
And I don\'t mean to write sad stories
or feel-bad-for-me poems.
But it seems that\'s what I do.
It seems I can\'t write happy
because happy can\'t be placed on one page.
Happy is many pages,
with many mountains
and valleys between them,
separating it too far
to seem pretty.
So I don\'t know how to say
I\'m happy.
I\'m just living.