Tall Grass

I understand why I love sorrow.

When someone sings about their sorrow, writes about it, speaks about it, they are only experiencing sorrow. One emotion is flowing through their mind like a pure, wide river. When someone sings of happiness, they could be experience sadness along with it. Someone could sing a love song to someone, yet be cheating on them.

Happiness often lies to me- it tells me that it is happy. But among the joy, among the smiles, among the laughter resides doubt, confusion, pain, anger. In sorrow there is but sorrow, with no one to be its fool. It is clear glass, with edges sharp nonetheless. When it cuts, a man can see his blood on the Petri, prime for examination. But happiness. Happiness is tall grass that conceals a blade; blood falls lost, hidden forever in the forest of cheerful half-truths. Blade covers blade, and both fell the slain.

Happiness is the man
for whom the needles dance.
Their feet jump higher,
as the man gets lieter.
They dance an outline
of the New York skyline.
He shows all his teeth,
but to his disbelief,
the crowns cannot save this king.

But sorrow is the man
for whom the needles lie dead in the their grave.
Their feet are stilled, obedient as truth’s slave.