Happy Poetry
They always ask me
if I ever write anything happy?
Sometimes I flip pages
until I find some random blurb
about squirrels
or the changing seasons.
They don’t know I’m writing about
how depression isn’t here to stay
and how nice to know
that the leaves fall
and weeds can grow
in the hardest of places.
No, I think
I don’t really write happy poetry
but I make the weeds look
damn beautiful.
These are weeds
being torn from
my flesh
as I tell them
you were always
beautiful
you were only
labeled by language
that couldn’t capture
your ability
to break pavement.
It’s ugly isn’t it?
This ability
to crush the walls
they worked so hard
to build.
And why they wonder
do I not write happy poetry?
Because in the moment
that I feel happiness
I bury my nails into its back
before it runs to find another lover.
Happiness is fleeting
we say
And I don’t much feel like losing it
to pen and paper
or to the tapping of
computer keys.
Why do I only write sad poetry?
They tell me I shifted the mood
in the room
it got a little darker.
Why do I only write dark poetry?
Because I drown depression with the sound of tapping keys.
They don’t see the light though
as if this is something that I owe them.
I invite men I date
to open mics
and slam nights.
I’ve joked about
how this is the test to see
if they can handle all of me.
Every one of those relationships
has failed.
And I
I was only joking.
They aren’t here
to bear witness
to my darkness
I invite them because here
is where I feel the most beautiful.
When I’ve illustrated
the ugliest parts of me
in the rhythm
of galloping horses,
when I have revealed
a broken family
in the tears of
of a hurting child.
I’ve cried at the mic
and felt no shame
for having grown
my ability to shed tears
despite being raised
to hide all of my sadness.
Do I write happy poetry?
This is happy poetry.
This is darkness
made bright.
This is heavy
becoming light.
This is anxiety
that got trapped
in a glowing screen
before I could get trapped
by my anxiety.
They don’t seem to know
the happiness one can find
when the sound of tapping keys
out runs
a running mind.
I didn’t write about the sunset that day
because I was busy watching the sky change.
I didn’t write about
how happy I felt to lay in his arms
because I was busy being warmed by the touch of his body.
I wrote about missing his breath on my neck
when I would no longer feel his breath on my neck
because that was when I could remember it in the greatest of detail.
I needed words then
so they could hold me
when I knew he wouldn’t hold me again.
This was me
creating happiness
in the loneliest of places.
I am not indulging
in the pain of being human.
I’m am painting pain in poetry.
I will never ask them
if they write happy poetry.
I will never ask them
if they ever sing about love found
and not love lost.
I will never ask them
if they ever create beats worth dancing to.
I know
every one of their beats
has been worth dancing to.
And they never owed me
happy words
happy songs
or pastel colored paintings.
For these are
their pastel colored paintings.
And this is my
pastel colored painting.
Written for me
so that I may have
my
happy
poetry.