Ink and Blood
Happiness for me
is always like a spoonful of sugar
with the bitterest pill to follow.
It’s fools gold
covering a jagged black stone,
a stack of counterfeit money,
the sun rising into storm clouds.
Sometimes the pain comes right away,
like a tidal wave crashing into the shore.
Other times it’s more like a disease,
one that kills slowly,
taking one faculty at a time,
until all that is left
is the memory of a ghost,
lines of pained poetry,
dripping with ink and blood.