Voice

How depressing 

All my writing 

Always seems to be. 

How inviting, 

Go into hiding, 

And write, oh woe is me. 

What a sad thing 

All my whining, 

All my tears and pain. 

Always blinded- 

I never find it- 

The sunshine in the rain. 

This condition, 

That I live in, 

Is hard, here, to portray. 

What makes me happy 

Is never really 

What my fingers want to say.