Why do I find
That the words only come
When I'm sad
When I'm scared
When there's something
To write about?
Is it true that happiness
Depletes my stores
Of inspiration,
Makes me lost,
Tears me away
From the world that I know
Best?
But what's it mean
When I can't write
About the good things
In my life?
I'm too busy enjoying
Them to share what
They make me feel.
Is it only the bad times
I find worth remembering?
Immortal on paper
But not in my head.
Never the good times
Seek for the pen,
Never the good times
Come up again
When I read what I've written
And feel the grasp
Of emotions of long ago
I never want back.
It's time to change that
And write for the good,
So later I don't just
Rely on the memories
But balance the picture
On paper instead.