A Pocketful of Happiness

My addiction to writing has taken

me over.  It’s like it’s a placebo, a balm

(bomb!)  to make me feel better about

myself.  So why should I feel guilty

about that?  What’s so bad about

feeling good about yourself?  Somehow

it seems I can’t go without writing

and still feel like the day was ok,

complete, you know?

Why should I care?  I worry too much

about everything.  My brain is

screwed on crooked or something.

It wants to make unhappiness

out of every lemon I perceive happening.

I work too hard at becoming

unhappy, discontent, complaining

about my lot.  A lot of nothing

results except what I don’t


This whole page is an example of

all that.  So I want to write

what’s inside & that’s what’s

inside.  My impatience with

myself.  My always wanting a

problem–creating one if I have to

to give me something to do &

prevent me from just feeling

as happy as I am at times

with no problems to solve,

nothing on the horizon–

just clear sailing.

Categories: creative, creative writing, Poetry, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

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