(I am not my poetry.)

I tried to write a happy poem, but…

I couldn’t.

I tried to write about the light in me

that I’ve only recently learned to love

but all my words dried up

I’ve never been afraid of the dark.

Even as a child, I learned your eyes

eventually adjust, and you can make it through without stumbling (too much)

Even still,

In the dark, there’s doubt

confusion

pain

And other things I can’t make sense of

and things I’m not even sure I actually see

So, with desperate curiosity, I write

Because words help me understand.

When I write,

I write to light the shadows between point A and B,

The places that I can’t quite see

And I forge a path with words

(and just like stars, it takes many to brighten a dark and cloudy sky)

But the light? I’ve never asked questions of the light

(And I think this might be common: who really begs, “why am I so happy?”)

I write, not because I am not happy,

but because, sometimes, I am sad

And writing helps me rearrange the world when the pieces don’t quite fit;

it fills the gaps when something is missing

And my notebook becomes my map to my heart

(which is a place I easily get lost).

So I write an apology to my pen,

Hoping, somehow, it can understand that the words it transcribes

and not the product of a sad person

but of a person who must navigate the darkness

in order to live in the Light.