Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day,
into more pieces than my heart was made of,
I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent,
the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness
wasn’t the world, it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings,
it was me, my thinking,
the cancer of never letting go,
and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me,
to what great place did thinking ever bring me?
I think and think and think,
I’ve thought myself out of happiness one million times,
but never once into it.