How rich have I made my unhappiness.

Quite richer than most men among me I presume.

And what of the currency do I so freely give?

It varies case by case so to speak.


So often I give it my time.

My day is scheduled for my liking,

but unhappiness is a jealous tenant.

It does a great deal of work rewriting my plans.


Frequently I give it my peace.

I allow it to sit and tremor.

To loudly hum at the frequency of displeasure.

For if there was a likeness of peace, I would surely know.


Daily I give it my strength.

I lay motionless waiting for an urge to exist.

I force smiles and laughter.

Oh, I've become quite the actor.


Ultimately it has taken my love.

I no longer feel that drawing warmth.

The excitement of the human experience.

Where is the love for me? Gone surely.


My dear unhappiness.

How I've grown so fond of you.

Look what you've done to me.

Why must I suffer so?

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