i feel tragic in a way that exceeds emotion
it's the kind that's religious and terrible
the eyes in roman paintings and wild animals
the fire on the altar and the ecstasy in the burn
i have turned myself into art by accident
found something to believe in the pull of my throat
the dry retching of beautiful pain that gathers there
i've turned into a sort of greek tragedy
to acknowledge the undeniable heat in my chest
which contrasts with my miserably icy skin
i found myself in the margin of a tragedy
the kind where the lovers tear themselves apart
because they can't bare feeling whole and loveable
i am happy often to my very own shock
i feel i shouldn't be and it doesn't make sense
but i feel content and peaceful in the way i assume
the lovers felt when everything burned down around them
if i have one thing i have everything
joy and tragedy have never competed
they've been the lovers tearing themselves apart
trying to mend one another before tearing open their own wounds
allow me tragic happiness as it always ends and rebirths
allow me messy thoughts with bad explanation
as i will never have the right words
but life will move on anyway in it's tragic manner
and i will feel happy in autumn