To Write Something Happy

If only to be happy wasn’t a precarious breeding ground for art!

My closed grin is a hostile passage for words beyond my vocabulary

An altruism I don’t even recognize in reflection

A joy that promises envy

Yet somehow, no measurement of optimism facilitates putting pen to paper.

Still I sacrifice my corporeality for daylight like it is my religion

An all-consuming platonist sunbath

Anew by my piety

An expense of all the art worth my making

Just to feel nice for a while.

And I ought to be thankful

But my choke for expression dispels all gratitude

Every feeling beyond my translation

Every word I’ll never say

True bliss entails ignorance but I can never be so lucky.

And so I write.

Though as if my contentment swallowed every last drop of ink

I am without substance

Without expulsion, without liberation

For the sake of some ‘happy’ beyond the scope of words.

I’d sooner flip a coin than decide which is favourable