I'm Just Living

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.