Happiness.

It takes.

When we look back upon gone neighborhood layouts.

ex malo bonum.

When bricks laid upon bricks

and families were only layers of mesh apart

appreciating the destruction is one thing, but believe

ex malo bonum.

That out of bad, comes good, out of life, springs forth

Unyielding for time, for opportunity

Bound only by physics and want.

By reason and resistance.

Embracing this motion is harder than one understands

Than one can grasp

Than one can ask and

I can't see

Can't see

Past my Fingertips

Yet I still

Strain my eyes

Quivering with might

Asking. Why and I am answered:

ex malo bonum.

And I realize that out of bad comes good.

Life breaths what Man breeds, and pays for what Man exceeds,

Bounds. 

Is a life of struggle in debt, in cubicles, in technology

More laborious

Than a self-sustained farm off-the-grid-and-possibility?

Ask, and evaluate.

Maybe then, and there

When and what more than we will see then is determined by how many Pronouns are placed, and the computer screen vibrates as the Pencil is sharpened next to it, wary of its once glorious past, its hidden ancestry, rooted in cruel possibility.

I lost my notebook, my thoughts today.

I can't loose this, even though it has been years and forgotten.

Slipped away and permanent, tucked beneath keystrokes. 

Where is this going what will be gained?

Yet I still write and still think but is it analog?

Yet I still write and still think but is it dialogue?

Yet I still write and still think but is it catalogued in extremes, I censor myself. Is it life giving reams of paper of poems that I crave more than I seek, but is it right to wright not bound by blue seams and red margins?

I seek what I cannot understand.

Poems no longer bound to the geometry of of eight and one-half by eleven.

A meter in its own right

I time sought.

Sticking to teeth like sorghum molasses,

Running red like the water of my stream of consciousness

Yet my creative juices are not too by farmed for, picked like the fruits as though they're

Grapes of Wrath.

Even when my mind's a dustbowl.

Even when my hairline is in a recession.

I find time, my self, and rebellious mind.

Thinking outside my own body, my own boundaries, and I can't find what's next, what connects.

And that is okay.

And that comforts.

And that contorts.

Oh. Oh good wordplay there.

Is this therapeutic?

No.

This is resuscitation. 

This is CPR in the writing persuasion.

This is my life revived by jolts of keystroke punches.

No longer lost like my blue bound book in my pocket, lost like my mind, like my self, and a blank one, the same type, the similar one, stares at me.

Will I open it just as I begin or will I could I consider a new life,

a life not written? Only typed.

And where does it all go...who am I writing for? Pressure is mine to keep

and I see the nexus of what I seek...

and...

ex malo bonum.

...

Happiness.