Sometimes we are more obsessed with the people we hate <br />than with the people we love <br />and I am unsure of the reason for this, <br />maybe because we see traces of ourselves in them. <br />Lately I waste my time with foolish preoccupations, <br />like making excuses for why I don’t do greater things, <br />or sitting in bed wondering what happiness is <br />but I will stray quickly from this <br />and denial will chime in. <br />My mind will tell me, as a way of reassurance, <br />that artistry means nothing more than striving off of your own sadness, <br />salivating at tragedy, <br />isn’t that what being a writer is? <br />Isn’t life far more interesting when introspection hurts? <br />People will either nod with you in agreement <br />or wonder what the hell you’ve lived through to say these things, <br />but I think it may just be inherent, <br />sadness is who I am.<br /><br />Vanessa Grixti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/you-are-what-you-feel/
