My Mind Feels It’s Bouncing On a Trampoline

In my younger state
I’d say it wasn’t fair
That maybe my body
Is immune to being happy
And not writing poetry

So in a way
I cured myself with sadness
Three years older
Falling back into old habits

And tripping over
My own bug-bite stained feet

Leaping over responsibilities
As I mumbled to myself that
Someone is here holding me