7 a.m.

I would like to call the period in which I write a “happy medium”

being neither too manic or depressed to find the net of a correct size

to catch the fireflies of thoughts who die out if I think too hard

while I’m extremely happy or on the edge of a cliff I don’t remember climbing

in order to find the correct perspective on my most humbling pursuit

which I never meant to start, I’m still running without meaning

trying to keep my thoughts still, as I’m quaking in the wake of truths

spilt on the counter of youth, caught up in stale beer

which helped to calm the nausea you never told anyone of

except the ex who knew there were twins, however, both ended together.

Now I sit here waiting, hoping for clarity and a dash of depression

As happiness is not a medium to write in.


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