I rather miss the poet in me.

I do not, for a second,
miss the pain...
but I miss the way the emotions I felt
swirled through and around me
trying to find their way
out of me...

It is a tremendous accomplishment
for me to acknowledge
that my current happiness
has stripped away my
need
for poetry...
At this moment,
I have no need to define my emotions.
I am simply content;
there is nothing particularly poetic
in that.
I suppose it is narcissistic of me
to assume that I am most beautiful
when I am expressing a primal misery...
that happiness itself cannot be
as magestic as sorrow...

.... it is a strange realization
that I would rather be happy
than poetic...
and yet
in every moment of that old misery
(even then, I knew)
I would have chosen happiness
over anything else