The problem with being happy
Is a lot like the problem with pluto
It was a vague way of
Describing a complex thing

Our sense of happiness is so fragile
It can be destroyed by simply asking whether or not it exists
Instead I'm busy
I'm interested
I'm fascinated

I want to build things
And then break them

I want to be busy and beautiful
And brimming with
Ten thousand moving parts
I want to hurt
So that I can heal

And that's okay

I wait for the inspiration to strike.
For the lightning bolt to hit me,
for that satisfying boom of thunder
to be the music in my enlightened mind.
But it doesn't come.

Day after day, I sit idly
and wait.
As other crackling lights fill the streets,
I am stationary as ever.
"It will arrive," I say, "When the time is right."
But it doesn't come.

Dawn turns to day, day turns to dusk.
Twilight seeps into the once bright sky
And I know
My time is coming to an end.

But still, inspiration evades my waiting mind.

And then, as the soft light of the stars flicker into view,
Something finally comes.
I stand up and look around, the profound realization lighting my fading sun.
There never was and will never be
a thunder god out there to help me.

Because I am Thor.
The inspirer,
the creator
of my own lightning strikes.

I smile, contented,
but still, I know
I will never create that shock of energy,
that blinding light
or world-changing view

For now,
it is too late.

Am I ready to restart?
Really ready to leave it all behind?
Just the people, or the places too?
If the memories hurt this bad,
Would reviving the pieces pain me even more?
I don’t know if I could stand,
Another rejection to send me sulking in reflection.
I hurt myself too much on my own.
Even after you apologized,
I was still lost on how to act alone.
You taught me to love creating past myself,
Now is there anyway to find that once again?
I feel bad for leaving what made me.
But then again, I hate who I am.

i wrote
blackout poetry
in my bible

and

i made
paper cranes
out of the ripped out pages

i did not mean to disrespect
i merely wanted to create

Boy.
You are atrocious;
You are belligerent.
You cocky thing.
You disgust me.

Boy.
You are revolting;
You are untrustworthy.
You are not deserving of my time.
You are worthless.

Don't you dare come back to me.
I won't let you in.
Don't you dare try for me.
I can't let you in.

Boy.
You are idiotic,
Chaotic,
And the least exotic.

You are flour in the kitchen.
You are dandelions blowing in the wind.
You are useless.

You're the puppet now, and
I hold the strings.

You're the bell,
And I'm the freedom that shall ring.

You are nothing if I say you're nothing.
You're something until I give you something.

I created you.
I designed you.
I gave you life.

Don't you dare make me take it away.
Because, boy, I will.

for i am a collector, seeker of beauty
appeal drools out of the pockets of my mind
death creates an entry to preserve, why must a take
this chance for granted?
for i am a collector, i take what i see,
and reform its original refinement by nature itself
a life form is only dead if one preserves it to be, taken to a frame,
it creates a form of life on its own
unable to move, unable to gaze,
but able to be wondered and admired by others
that is life, if it sparks a mind then surely
it does so within itself