Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jun 2010
I didn’t believe such a thing could be pure, because the word is so cluttered in itself
Happiness is a cluttered word

It’s cluttered with misconceptions of its meaning: the distortion in between the perfectly round consonants and vowels
You wouldn’t think there’d be much room for a world of misconstrued and sometimes subdued views in the tiny space between the plump “a” and the content “p”

But in the miles of space between the embrace of the letters are worlds of difference
People that think happiness is money, the green scene, living large, party barge credit card charge

Or the people that think happiness is ***, a good blow, heavy petting, get a zoo, pet all the animals you want.

We dig ourselves into a hole where we can’t control this self-filling bowl of “happiness”
For me, happiness is driving in my car at sixty miles an hour while listening to a sweetly soothing Melody Gardot
She sings of blue birds that heard the words of the people below, as I feel the blue birds tell me that it’s okay. I will be okay.

Somehow I soak the sun, though it’s winter and the sun is hiding deep in the soil under the snow that continues to blow even though we’re in Dallas, Texas.
That’s ironic.
Written by
Erin Little
Please log in to view and add comments on poems