Fear is a kind of madness, I believe —
the devil’s bloom, I call it.

A communion of false insecurities,
where misery twirls ever so gracefully.

It twirls and dances,
until my mind takes it leave.
Their works are like anchors.

“You are responsible for your happiness,” they said.
Oh, but the chore of it.

I dinned with regret —
it was just a fling,
though its kisses were anything but.

Then happiness said, hi.
Ah — to flirt with perfection.

I like it here.
I might stay.