Analogy

It feels better to feel sad than to feel nothing.
I am long a proponent of the position,
Not for the artificial depths in character it can create,
But for the genuine conviction that a volume of woe
Is more valuable a substance than a volume of void.

Likewise I have wallowed in other mud,
Relished my greed and my marvelous select envies,
Polished my pride and my fabulous few passions,
Though truly I live more in a place of anger and wrath.
My summer home is a place of rain that never falls.

I know in retrospect that I was once happy,
I know I catch glimpses of it here and there,
And for those brief moments I am thankful,
But no more thankful than I am for other periods,
And by this I mean mere punctuation.

One cannot live for or live on such markings,
And there is no content in an eternal ellipsis.
I appreciate my story for what it is, every page,
Though my ink is largely frustration and rage
Until mine ends like yours, infinitely ellipses.