Byline: Undermined Happiness

Buford Youthward

Writing from my wounds I try not to make my facts your story. The myths that I believe and the beliefs that are myths masticate in my unsettled mind.

I abstract art until I no longer know what I'm trying to abstract, filling picture frames with string beans and strawberries in the sunshine. The opposite colors subtract and deform the composition.

Nestling up to warm nights, low stars, yellow moons, I make due with love on a budget. Tasked with completing the gaps in the face of rejection's cold sting I wade on through too much unfulfilling music.

If things don't make sense then it's senseless to continue. No use in undermining happiness. Even guilt keeps a steady rhythm. If we are gonna be held under suspicion, let's share some demons together.

Showing some sympathy for city kids in their sin machines on an early morning mission sporting pizza grease and designer scars, I know what it's like to be mad and anxious with nothing to show for it.

The measure of genius is gold no matter what you read in books or see on TV. Amass good will and the right energy might shine upon you. This is a good thing, even if the gold turns to fickle dust.

But the gods of delinquency know the light comes and goes. They speak of great fragrances while walking odorless in the garden of my passion.

Men of character, women of charm float past the reluctant barker who attracts and repels with equal facility. Ineffectual marketing knows no worse vehicle and this guy yelping for no one's benefit doesn't care to get it.

Carpet bombers rarely do. All spontaneous people, men of action, are active because they are stupid and limited.

The lord of ants knows no such activity. He's got the requisite talent and half a hunch. With grinding teeth there's no stopping the bitching about membranes itching to binge.

And there you have it. A man possessed a character presumed. The wounds stand in for evidence, this writing merely a preface.

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