| Oh God, so great is grief that grants the means to be inspired. Breathing life |
| again to empathy that I thought had expired. |
| And if my malaise capitulates the lingering emphatic ache, could I succumb to |
| joy again? Or at least find some relief in familiar pain? |
| Either way, if I’m to raise my voice again I should celebrate. And take some |
| comfort in knowing that the slow introspection that I felt in isolation has |
| left me with an elucidated sense of self. |
| And I know that it may not be enough to satiate the phantom ache that I carry |
| in my timbre; but it softly shakes the taut embrace that doubt had once |
| maintained. May flora bloom from every wound that I’ve volunteered to display. |
| After all, don’t I deserve to be happy too? |
| 'Cause there’s a bouquet for every misery. |
| An embellishment to all my weaknesses. |
| I’m jubilant in my undoing; you say it should hurt but I don’t feel it. |
| So I propose that if I’m able to articulate my woes in communion with an |
| assembly who can relate, is my pain not a price I should be willing to pay? |
| (Don't I deserve to be happy too?) |
| What is the worth of a misery if not experienced in jovial company? |
| There is catharsis to be found in the comfort afforded by our generous despair. |
| (Don't I deserve to be happy too?) |
| So celebrate with me. |
| 'Cause there’s a bouquet for every misery. |
| An embellishment for all our weaknesses. |
| Be jubilant in our undoing; does it really hurt if you don’t feel it now? |