I often wondered
Why all the words
I put on paper
Seemed weighed down
By melancholy.
I considered myself
A happy guy
Or at least
Just sad enough
To be sane.
So where were
The words,
The happy words,
That could prove
This was the case?
I knew the answer
As soon as I
Considered it.
When I was happy
I was busy
Being happy.
I was marvelling
At the whole
Fucking thing
Trying to understand
Why I wouldn’t
Feel like this
All the time.
So I didn’t write
When I was happy
Because I was busy
Being happy.
It was sad though
Because
The words,
My comrades,
The ones that
I turned to
When things
Went south
Only ever appeared
To represent
Misery.
A perpetual cycle
Fuelled by the fact
That I was doing
What I thought
I was supposed to do
When I was happy.
I thought I was
Supposed to
Be busy
Being happy.
I resolved to write more
In the good times
Write when the dice
Rolled my way.
Write when I got
Every green light.
Write when
A pretty stranger
Smiled at me.
Write when
All the tiny
Binary
Chances lined up
Or whatever it was
That defined
A good day.
Write about it all
To find the pattern
The key
The secret
The truth.
To replicate
Duplicate
The feeling.
Write
Was all I’d need to do.
But right then I realised
If I did just that
I would be too busy
Writing
To be happy.