Poetry gives me more solace
than any animate object could.
It warms the soul,
soothes the mind,
and relaxes the nerves.
But sometimes I wonder,
"why are all of the poets always so sad?"

Why don't we celebrate the good thing in our lives?
If we strip away the ****,
and get to the center of the core,
we can all write about something happy.

Like when your crush said hello to you at school
(okay, maybe that's a little unrealistic.)
But when you had an awesome time at theater with your friends,
or when your sister slipped on the ice and your laughter brought you to tears.
Or maybe when your favorite episode of a TV show came on,
reminiscing about the memories via old Kodaks,
eating a wonderful piece of pie,
or maybe even helping out the fellow man.

How about the cathartic conversation you had with your father,
going to visit your grandparents,
engaging in an insightful debate with the neighbor.
Or just simply:
Turning the **** up by yourself in your bedroom
in your underwear,
with the music eroding the feeling in your eardrums,
singing your heart out,
and enjoying the excitement only you can bring yourself.
Jazz it up.
Be happy
and let your genius reflect that.

potentia nostrae amori
vertat sidera et
moveat terram.

velut tuus subrisus clarior lucet
tibi infiniti sensus habeo.

He swallows the last bit of white wine,
and places the glass back onto the table.
He runs his hands through his greasy hair,
and lightly tugs at the follicles
to know if he could still feel.
With a pen placed in his right hand,
the hand drops down onto the paper
and the ink begins to smudge.
He can't do it.

Inhale.
Exhale.
He scoffs, and jogs to his drawer.
And there it is.
The life-ender.
He stares down the barrel of barren dreams,
and begins to play with the revolver.
He tosses it into each of his hands,
emoting the last bit of glee that has been missing
for a while now.
Inhale.
And this time,
there was no exhale.