Taking a walk into my heart’s archive,
storage vault for pain healers,
no more relying on blunt dealers.
With my thoughts, I’ll connive
to find cure for my grief.
Else, my breathing would be brief.
A cure for depression,
to erase thoughts of opression,
to stop putting people in bate,
to welcome joy that’s never late,
Happiness with no syllable count,
the unused cure I’m about to mount.