I refuse to believe that I only exceled at poetry when I was sad
Because that just seems like ******* to me
But there were ways of making the words talk like they ought to that I just
Don't seem to be able to do anymore
There were days when I would read something I wrote
And I would step back and say:
"That was a good line in an okay poem"
I had a few good lines in okay poems

Yet now, I am not sad
And I have no good lines in okay poems
I have "meh" lines in "eh" poems
And I'd be more discouraged if I weren't so preoccupied
With being astounded at how much progress I've made
So I suppose, if by some strange transaction
I've traded ability for happiness
I'll give up the poems
And smile