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.