i feel tragic in a way that exceeds emotion

it's the kind that's religious and terrible

the eyes in roman paintings and wild animals

the fire on the altar and the ecstasy in the burn

i have turned myself into art by accident

found something to believe in the pull of my throat

the dry retching of beautiful pain that gathers there

i've turned into a sort of greek tragedy

to acknowledge the undeniable heat in my chest

which contrasts with my miserably icy skin

i found myself in the margin of a tragedy

the kind where the lovers tear themselves apart

because they can't bare feeling whole and loveable

i am happy often to my very own shock

i feel i shouldn't be and it doesn't make sense

but i feel content and peaceful in the way i assume

the lovers felt when everything burned down around them

if i have one thing i have everything

joy and tragedy have never competed

they've been the lovers tearing themselves apart

trying to mend one another before tearing open their own wounds

allow me tragic happiness as it always ends and rebirths

allow me messy thoughts with bad explanation

as i will never have the right words

but life will move on anyway in it's tragic manner

and i will feel happy in autumn