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what if I’m happy
is that so wrong
are there parts dug deep inside of me that scream out for malice and incompleteness
scrambling for words that will never be spelled out
hope climbing up broken ladders
while i let myself fall on your empty words
but this isn’t about you
because there’s only so much i can write before it all sounds repetitive
and starts to lose meaning
“i i i i i i i i”
don’t know how to say things out loud
not the way i want them to
so i scramble them up like eggs in an omelet
but call it over easy when it doesn’t come out the way i planned.

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