Wednesday Words: I Don't Know How to Write a Happy Poem

bottle, shoelace, wanton

Tw: depression, suicidal ideation

\\ I don’t know how to write a happy poem. 
Maybe it’s because I don’t much put much stock
in building up stores of happiness

I'd always known happiness as a fickle, 
fleeting ally under which lurked the shadow of sadness. 
I never thought 'twas good or bad -

simply the wending way of life. 
I accepted perseverance in the company of misery, 
learned to collect small pleasures

bottling up a moment, even a single sensation,
to accumulate and ferment until it bursts forth 
showering the present moment with remembered joy,

joy multiplied across time. As I kneel by the door,
the pleasing symmetry of the loops of my shoelaces
recall the shape of the aquamarine wings 

of the butterfly I watched flit and flicker around the mailbox
before flying away down the road and out of sight.
I imagined my own body lifting gently on the wind

tracing the path of an invisble, winding staircase
to a secret cave in the clouds wherefrom I looked down
into the gleaming, rosy surface of a pool

Bioluminescent algae flickered in synchrony,
a concert of lights which told the story
of time's long forgotten secrets.

On days where I am overcome by the arduous articulation 
of the machinations of living, I used to imagine 
myself jumping into a deep ravine to become one with darkness 

Now, I picture myself safely esconced in this cave.
I whisper the story of every good thing I remember,
the wanton delights and small joys

I don't need a happy story or even a happy ending. 
Is a story even defined by its ending? After all, 
we each meet the same end yet our stories are our own

Tell me of the shadows which have dwelt with your soul.
I shall not despair but laud the triumph
that the darkness did not steal your sight 

Tell me of the paths you have walked, 
and I'll paint you the map of mine. 
I'll show you the wings I've carved from stone

I'll tell you the euphoria of defying gravity, 
of being granted access to the universe's inner sanctum
and of the crushing pain of falling again and again 

I don't know how to make from this a happy poem, 
but I shall give you all the pieces of my blood and love
my small, precious delights and aching despair

And You Can Call This Poem However You Like //