Portrait of the Writer as a Young Woman

Once there was a girl who was sad all the time.
Then she got happier when she got older.
But she was still sad.
And she read a lot of poetry because
She thought it would cure her sadness.
Or make her think it was being cured.
In her mind there was no difference.
She recognized the same sadness in other people
And made these people her friends.
But she was still sad.
The media made her sad with its abundant field
Of gossip and rumors,
Where weeds grew tall and thin,
Deteriorating quickly.
And every time she looked in the mirror,
She became a weed.
Her friends made her sad when they talked about
Their fruitful sex lives.
A life she didn’t care to have, but it
Made her jealous anyway.
The kids at her school made her sad because their
Smiles were indicative of happiness,
And she was not happy.
She was still sad.
As she grew, the girl looked for happiness in
All the right places.
She searched in the glove compartment of
Her new blue Mustang convertible.
She looked for it in her boyfriend’s heart,
And then cracked it open to get a better look.
She even dared to venture into a tanning booth,
Where dangerous beasts invaded people’s skin.
And she still didn’t find it.
And she was still sad.
Feeling connected to somebody made her sad because
The person’s reception was not very clear,
And all the images she sent
Came out fuzzy or not at all.
And realizing that maybe the person just didn’t want to watch
That particular program made her sad, because
One less viewer meant it got cancelled.
She read a lot of books about politics because it was safer
To feel passionate about something outside of her own life.
Her life made her sad.
She went to the senior prom to look
For happiness on the dance floor tiles,
But all she found were horny teenagers and pretty girls.
And she became a jealous weed.
And she smoked herself to get happy.
She swam into deep blue eyes, down, down
So far down she lost track of her breath
And nearly drowned.
Tangled seaweed swarmed her feet.
Dying was no different,
Made no difference,
Except she would lose the struggle to
be happy.
And when she broke the skin of the water,
Gasping, wheezing, convulsing for air, she understood
She had enjoyed sinking all those years.