Pure Articulation

So...I haven't been very emotionally stable the past few days, so I made myself hand-write everything that came to mind and this is what I got. It let me sleep. Good enough for me.
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I am cursed with the art of purely articulated emotion.

When my heart is glad, it is not merely so. It is joyous. Enraptured. Enlightened. Halcyonic. Contented. Happy. A whole dictionary of words all wrapped around each other like children rolled in blankets. They dance and sing and laugh about my head, pull at the dimples in my cheeks, bubble against my throat, spill bright paints into my thoughts until only the edges burn in gray and black.

In this way I am blessed...

In this way I am cursed, for when my heart is not glad or contented or enlightened it is instead weighted. Caged. Tortured. Ugly. Numb. Lifeless. It is a prisoner beating and struggling against its bindings, pulling and screaming and begging for the mercy it knows will not come, for its captor does not even recall its existence.

And yet, in all things, amidst all words and circumstances, one among them remains constant.

Love.

It is a precious word, at once black and brittle and perfect and beautiful. It is the poet's vice, for she cannot live without it, and yet to live with it she must die for it. She knows it is a privilege to be entitled Guardian of such a pretty fickle creature—but what torturous and cruel a thing it is, when all other poets she might share in love lie dead and unburied in its wake.

Must I walk this warpath alone, without companion but for love itself?

Must I sustain such loneliness? For naught?