I told myself to write a hopeful song,
and seconding, I found my heart did long
to cast away my dreary garb and wash
myself of this despair—did long to quash
this horrible black cloud encircling
my head. And yet it is disheartening:
I may myself lean into it; I find
I cannot pull away. A prison mind,
locked up by my own thoughts, condemned to life.
Parole is worse, I fear: To end the strife
you have to pay your eyes. I’d pay my tongue,
perhaps, but not my eyes. And so unsung,
my pleasant melody I will not write.
I cannot pay for pleasure with my sight.
Poem: Happiness
Tale Told 