Fmaily Matters

We are not the happiest bunch,

We speak volumes of sadness.

Our laughter is saved for margins.

We worry when we are happy,

this joy may sting, stab us in the back,

killer joy is what we call it.

Happiness is not a tradition we inherit.

And our house isn’t hunted, we’ve got no ghosts to blame.

It’s all us, we curse ourselves with disdain.

And you can’t ever leave something,

that lives within, trapped between your skin and soul.

And I think I’ve made peace with it,

that I’m not the nicest person to have around,

to be this close to, to care for.

I’m not a pleasant person and it’s fine.

I guess I’m tired of it all,