I like a lot of things.

I like books,

I like plushies, dogs, cookies and milk,

I like to like things.

Even if I don’t like it, I like to like it.

I don’t like weeds.

I don’t like picking up dog toys,

I don't like this and that, or even that and this.

But I like it anyway.

Even if I like to like it, I don’t like it.

It happens all the time.

I don’t like that and this, or even this and that.

But I need to like this and that, even that and this.

Would people like me if I didn’t like that and this or this and that?

I don’t like to think about it, I just keep trying to like liking things.

I like talking, it’s very fun.

I like to talk out of turn, even if only for a pun.

But I don’t like talking, it can scare me a ton.

But if it scares me a ton, why do I find it so fun?

This contradiction is my addiction.

Yet sadness is hard to like.

But it feels tougher to not like.

No matter how much I cry, my lips are pursed into a large smile.

A laugh turned to nothing but crying whimpers and moans of melancholy.

It’s not funny or happy, so why am I trying to smile?

I don’t like being without laughter.

I like laughing. It makes me happy.

But I can’t laugh anymore.

The glitter and sparkle life had was replaced with a bitter and fickle feeling.

Where did the light go?

I like the light.

I don’t like the dark.

I hate the dark.

I can’t see what I like in the dark