In the midst of misfortune,
of my saddest predicament,
I find that the picture of my happiness
is just an illusion of the eyes,
playing tricks before my petty mind.
Sleeping unsoundly in inches of sorrow,
I stare up at the dark ceiling fan above me,
while crying invisible, nonexistent tears
that stream in long, transparent rivers
parallel to the cheeks that have no color.
From the base of my imagination,
up to the very crop of my, dare I say, heart,
I swallow the pride that made my harvest
a blue-ribbon masterpiece of deception,
one of contemptt and unsurpassed misery.
How the killing feeling of disappointment
makes me subtly cringe inside my shell.
How it makes me sink into a colorless swamp
of snow-blanketed gloom and depression,
into a cavern next door to hell.
