we all have things we show to people,
places we visit, books we read,
people we try to love, moments we try to live -
an endless train of moments,
an infinite string of lives
all of them sewn so well that
it's hard to tell one apart.

yet beneath,
we all carry some darkness,
a little too much, a little too less,
always there, perpetual.
dark is all the universe knows,
'tis perchance that a distant star
lights up half of our lives.
and o, we, fools wonder,
why can't we be happy?

Author's note:

Maybe, I should apologize for this poem. But I had to write this. To remind myself that I can still write.