Why is it so much easier
to write a sad poem than a happy one?
Well, I suppose a poem's like a scar
and happiness rarely leaves a scar.

I guess when I am truly happy
like, my-jaw-hurts-from-smiling happy,
the pen doesn't seek my hand.
If we were continuously and eternally happy
would there be any art at all?

A happy life would be terribly uninteresting.

This is a happy poem.
Not because I am happy
but because I am content.
Content with the scars I've earned,
content with the love I've lost
and the love I have found.
I have crawled in the shadows
and I've walked in the light.
Gray is only possible
if you know the black from the white.
I'll tell you a secret.
Never mind, it's mine to keep.
This is a happy poem.