I’m starting to believe the feeling of happiness is an illusion, as well as happy poems. Because what do you mean you felt happiness so pure you made it into words? How can you write a love poem for him or her while I’m stuck here, mourning the pieces of my own mind? And how can I feel so pure and ready to let go, but the second my pen touches the paper, I’m only feeling the bittersweet anger I’ve been carrying, while promising myself that I’ll drop it in a hole so deep it won’t ever crawl back to me?