Glad to be Sad
You wonder why my poems are sad.
It is not because I am feeling bad.
When I write my poetry,
I am not in misery.
It is because my poems come from deep inside
and happiness I wear with pride.
Is it wrong to write of death so much,
on the corpses of trees that we now clutch?
There is a roommate inside my thoughts,
it does not share, it bullies lots.
Inside my skull a parasite,
It feeds on stress, it is not right.
I can't get it to obey,
It will always get away.
It will not let me sleep,
it plays loud music of woes to keep.
I try to get it medicated,
I get myself interrogated.
But it will always live with me
a roommate of catastrophe.
The fool tries to control me,
this will only bring him agony.
I have no interest in his wants,
I shred his brain with my taunts.
He feeds me everyday,
I thrive on mind decay.
I corrupt his every thought,
I love it when he is distraught.
I live inside his head
I will not rest until he's dead.