Sometimes
I suppose I am happy 
like when I am with my friends,
throwing 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 to an unexplainable 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's nights like these when I realize:
I am many things. 
I am happy and said,
outgoing and shy,
rambunctious and quiet.

But mostly, 
I am just empty. 

this is when I write.