sometimes
I suppose I am happy,
like when I am with all my friends,
trowing my head back and covering my mouth
as I shake with laughter
at a joke someone just made.
But then day turns to night
and my carefree grin turns into and unexplaineble sadness,
etched on my face like a tattoo,
and I lay in bed,
thinking about all the things I wish I could say--
all the things I'm too afraid to admit,
even with only pen and paper and mind;
It are nights like this when I realize:
I am many things,
I am happy and sad,
outgoing and shy,
rambuctious and quiet
But mostly,
I'm just empty
