And so she found herself in the corner

Journal on her lap opened to a new page

Just like old times

Pencil in hand, pressed lightly against the paper

But unlike before, this time found no movement

No defining strokes of the graphite

Marking beautiful words dripping with emotions

So tangible that another could feel it when reading

No, words weren't coming to her paper this time

A sigh, and the journal is closed

Still, no new words inside its covers

For how can one describe happiness?

Too long had she penned her distress

The realms of sorrow are rich with phrases

Poetic, true, and deep

Yet the world of smiles has little to offer

For one such as her, writer of the pain

Capturing the raw emotion in depression

No black abysses were to be found

And so, she found herself wondering

If she was even a writer anymore

No poems, no stories

Nothing beautiful and mysterious

Just smiles, in a seemingly endless supply

The happy have terrible writer's block