Why is pain a place of comfort, and not joy?
Why not the peace of a warm embrace,
Or the sound of the rain outside,
While I am safe, inside, with no complaints?
I love my own company, my love for life,
For the flowers springing up
From the concrete, the birds
Singing in the trees outside my window.
Why then, when I sit
And put my pen to my thoughts,
And my thoughts to the paper,
Do I continuously choose
For misery?
JD Poetry 