Second nature

It's easy to write about the things that haunt and bring you pain 

it just comes naturally.
 
You're so disturbly/infuriatingly inspired with so many descriptions and comparisons of what happened and how it made you feel 
but when I write about the joys I start out good but they seem to fall flat to my ear 
 
Because I don't have any thing to compare it to
 
this happiness is something new
 
&
 
because I cant always find the words to describe what truly makes me happy 
it's deeper than that. 
 
 
People don't like perfect love stories anyway
 
People like the dark twisted fantasies that are sometimes actually reality they don't even know it
 
 
People only hear what is being said,
Rarely do they hear the poet
 
 
This poem is about: 
Me

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