I've figured out why its harder
to write poetry when
you're happy:
No one wants to hear
about the butterflies in
your stomach
or the rainbows
you projectile *****
across every surface.
People relate better
to the days spent curled beneath
six, thick layers of Grandma's quilts
and Auntie Cath's baby blankets.
They understand
the puffy, pink eyes that are
so swollen you can barely see
Tonight's featured chick flick.
They can imagine
the isolated nights spent
crying into a cheap glass of Merlot.
But
for some reason we can't picture happiness.
We can't associate with the unicorns and
marshmallows for the fear that
we might lose ours
and slip into that
blissless reality.