happy thought, happy poem, I can do that!
let content happiness and satisfaction bleed through my pen as I do with all my other thoughts.
I can grasp despair and loneliness by the hand, even confusion has its own explained place, but happiness?
happiness, of all things is a struggle to translate.
I can never get it quite right. it seems as if the weight of happiness, in some unexplainable way, hold less than that of unsatisfaction.
If someone were to read all the words I have written, I'm sure that the impression given, would not be one of a sunny disposition. It's as if the pen with which I write is filled with negativity and spite. is it the pen? is it me?
happy and optimistic starts, always treacle through to questioning dissatisfaction.
corruption of positivity,
faltering glee,
silenced laughter,
stand still prosperity.
I mean well. Trying to record the delirium and delusions of my hopes and dreams, only to be stopped by the shattering of the looking glass trapping me in reality.
Its all dull colours and high walls and seeming unattainable goals.
I can write you a happy poem, about red roses and prince charmings and peaceful serenity, children holding hands under a cherry blossom tree. Though I must warn you, the tree will be hollow and the roses wilted. Trying to document the unexplainable is a predicament I face daily. Its like trying to take a clear focused image of a moving train, all blurred and morfed into something firmiliar but not exact. Something altered in translation from one person to the next.
So an empty happy poem is what you shall receive, and maybe that's the way its suspose to be.
unachievable,
inconceivable,
but happy.
Maybe the pleasures of the world are fleeting, captured in feeling, not word nor picture or even literature, and that's fine by me. So you shall hear of my failures, my worries, my doubts. Though I am not unhappy, that you can hear of in the attempted happy poems I write.
