So I wanted to write a happy poem.
I’d make it all cheerful and smiley.
But there was a catch,
what would I write about?
I thought of the things that make me happy.
Relishing a mango, its luscious yellow flesh squishing between my fingers?
Nah, that would be too shallow.
How about reading Murakami?
Perhaps this would work.
I picked up The Elephant Vanishes,
and with every page turned, my happiness vanished too,
morphing first into intrigue,
Maybe, I was approaching this all wrong.
A happy poem would have to talk about some profound joy.
Yea, I understand now.
Oh so difficult to grasp.
Just like writing a happy poem.
100 Days of Happy Poems, Poem 6