Can a poet be happy, I truly wonder?
Except as a temporary passing whim
If she decides, weary of angst,
To allow mundane happiness in.
Poetry, for me, means a flight of my soul
Soaring past the limits society holds.
I exult in joy, and bleed in passion,
Weep for love, emotions crashing
Against the rocks that hold me in
The words emerge from deep within
Raw
Too raw
For mere happiness.
-alka
Aug 2018