Depressing

You want me to write depressing

I won’t

my bleeding heart

won’t be on display

my raw jagged, feelings

won’t be naked in the fields

up for dirty hands

to tamper further

No, I won’t write depressing

there’s enough pain in that soul

enough bitter words in that mind

I won’t bring some more on paper

I won’t write depressing

You can collect them from the streets

they roam one too many

you won’t find mine

mine are for me to keep

to hold on to and die with

so, no, I won’t write depressing

but see, you already betrayed me

those awful words

were sucked out of the crack in my heart

and spilled onto the page

like milk over the counter

like blood killed cold

and you read it.

This poem is in response to all my poets friends who ask me only for my depressing ones. Why do we only like those?