I tried to write a happy poem once. It seemed as though the happiest words I could think of could only be chalked up to content. I know nothing of happiness and poetry together. I know of one and of the other, but it doesn’t seem right to write something happy when every word at my figure tips is only written and typed from the evil and pain in the world that I’ve seen. Experience can bring joy, but experiences can also be the cruel sadness that riots my blood. It’s in the beat of my walk. It’s in the air that I breathe. In the way that I feel. I know of happiness because I’ve been happy, and I’ve been loved. Having been thoroughly and visibly loved by careless hands I also know of sadness, of deceit, of being buried alive by selfish hands. Hands that only sought to destroy something beautiful. Hands like waves that seek to swallow anything whole that still has life. I can’t write a happy poem. I don’t know how, and I’ve tried. I can’t write a happy poem… So, quit asking. Either deal with my sadness and my pain or don’t have me at all. When I sit there and try to write a happy poem it’s like the poem knows it makes no sense and the sorrows that I know, the woes that put me to sleep, the countless times that I have been the butt of every joke… Like my name is the punchline. They come at me. Full force. Like a stampede. If you don’t like what you read here. It’s because you cannot understand the feeling of drowning when you’re not even under the water. You don’t know the feeling of screaming for help, but it comes out like white noise. It disappears in the air like cigarette smoke. Then you have clearly never choked on words that were so powerful, you had to say them, but… You couldn’t. What you wrote or typed wasn’t happy enough and who wants to hear the sorrows of others when they are happy; when things are going good in their life? That sappy, happy-go-lucky feeling is so wonderful and just good that hearing thoughts that sound anything like fear, pleading, sadness, pain, anger, anything that is remotely not happy or joy-filled… It’s not good enough… for you. Like my sadness and my pain, the deceit that still resonates from within is nothing to you if it means that I am not happy.
Just like you are.
So, no… I cannot write a happy poem.
So, no… I will not write a happy poem.
So, no… You are not getting a happy poem just because you want me to write cheerful words.
So, no… Now stop asking me to.
© Donovan G. Ward
I am attending college online with Grand Canyon University (GCU) for an English Teaching degree for Secondary Education. The first question I was asked when I made the decision to embark on this journey to be a teacher was, "Why do you want to be a teacher?" My response: "It is not for the money." Regardless, I am looking forward to being a teacher and am on this blog as part of a college course. I have written (never published) books and poetry of all kinds and have a love for writing in general. I have never done a blog before so we will see how this goes. Let's do this!