Sometimes we are more obsessed with the people we hate
than with the people we love
and I am unsure of the reason for this,
maybe because we see traces of ourselves in them.
Lately I waste my time with foolish preoccupations,
like making excuses for why I don’t do greater things,
or sitting in bed wondering what happiness is
but I will stray quickly from this
and denial will chime in.
My mind will tell me, as a way of reassurance,
that artistry means nothing more than striving off of your own sadness,
salivating at tragedy,
isn’t that what being a writer is?
Isn’t life far more interesting when introspection hurts?
People will either nod with you in agreement
or wonder what the hell you’ve lived through to say these things,
but I think it may just be inherent,
sadness is who I am.
Vanessa Grixti
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/you-are-what-you-feel/
