Poetic

They say you write less when you're happy.
Well isn't that sad?
Let me put down this pen,
before I go mad.
No, I'm sorry.
I haven't written in years.
I've been lost.
I've been floating.
I've been swimming in fears.
It doesn't make for much,
when your mind sits blank.
When your wrists run red
under rigid restraints.
Your fingers can't dance.
You can't feed the fire,
if you're too weak to burn,
if you aren't fueled by desire.
I've been there before.
My heart's been synthetic.
Passions retreated to nothing.
That's supposed to be poetic?
Start a line,
Delete.
Wait, what was that again?
And again?
And repeat.
Thoughts never finished,
washed away by waves of sadness.
Stuck deep inside,
a place of pure malice.
I guess now that I'm happy,
I wrote this to say,
That I didn't write either,
when my soul was in dismay.
If you're not playing music,
if you can't read a book.
If you can't seem to laugh,
Depression's a crook.
She'll leave you dry,
even just for a while.
She'll do anything she can,
so that you wont smile.
So please tell me again,
that we write less when we're happy.
Because when my soul was unlit,
my anguish is what trapped me.
I can't believe it.
It's kind of pathetic.
My sadness kept me from writing.
And that's supposed to be poetic?