is a scary thing.

it can be taken

so easily,

ripped away

from your grasp,

snatched away

from your clutch

when you’re already

so comfortable,

so accustomed.


does not feel

like a state of mind;

it feels like a gift.

it feels like a high,

and what goes up

must always come down.


seems like a dream:

a lucky day,

a four-leaf clover,

a triple seven

on the slots.

and, like a snowflake

that lands on my tongue,

i feel so lucky

for that one moment,

until i feel it melt

inside my mouth.

and though this moment

is so short-lived,

though happiness

is a butterfly

that lands

at the edge of my hand¾

its beauty gracing me

for less than a second¾

i would kill,

i would lie,

i would starve,

i would die

for a taste,

for a touch

(how i want it so much)

of this sweet,

ripened apple,

to live in this chapel

of satisfaction,

of freedom.

i want them.

i need them.

these small moments

of happiness,

i crave them more

than words can say.


but here is my problem:

what if, one day,

i feel it, i obtain it,

and, much to my dismay,

it is not what i hoped for,

not what i prayed?


is a scary thing,

for it is, to me, but a dream.

what if i put it on a pedestal,

if it’s not what it seems?

have i lived my life

under false definitions?

is my pot of gold

just a bunch of superstitions?



i am afraid to feel,

for i do not know

if it is even real.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741