Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

What Makes Me Happy

I do not know if there is more
to life
than to live the life of a “tortured artist”
banging my head against walls and doors.
My friend abandoned his “artistic” life
and instead settled for matrimony,
paternity,
and commercial success.
He is happy now
walking the Santa Monica mountains,
pushing a stroller,
and scuba diving off Catalina
on weekends.
I am here night after night
struggling against my own demons
that I can not let go.
I toss and turn in my cotton dye free sheets
and dream about my mother,
my Volvo,
my screenplays,
and my music.
They are always dreams of anxiety,
dreams without completion.
Nightmares.
Just now
I left my poem,
to wander the room
like a prisoner in solitary confinement
with no where to go.
I have forgotten
peanut shells
and French Dips
and Baseball.
I have forgotten
how to laugh.
And I have no idea
what makes me happy.