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Bloody, filthy, happy.

I don’t write
when I’m happy.
I don’t write…

I can’t complain
when I’m happy again
but the pain…
the pain is so interesting!

If only bliss,
was a knife -
skate across my skin,
glide.

I’m not happy
to just survive,
it’s just living,
and not alive.

So I yern,
I pine,
for the space to collide
with the time.

I wait
happy and guilty…
for what I deserve -
bloody and filthy!

Oh woe is me
to be bored and full,
I have everything I need
and I’m so empty!

This happiness
and emptiness, monotony.
If only I was bloody,
filthy!

If only
bliss was a knife,
it’s just living
and not alive.

Bloody, filthy, happy.

ElleHurley

Joined April 2010

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