The Happy Stuff

It’s hard to write the happy stuff. Hard to find myself content. More, more, more. They scream. I whisper. Unspoken, with a troublesome creature behind the painting. It’s beautiful, not real though. They say. I wink. Exactly. 

It’s hard to write the happy stuff. Amidst such rough and tumble, that is. It’s all a circle, not a line with an end, like they think. They don’t think. I chuckle. I know all about that circle. Too bad they’re all wrapped up. Tied up. Shaken up. Whoa, shaken up. 

It’s hard to write the happy stuff. So much. Big pools of brokenness. Arms always, but no relief. Lips to cheeks or foreheads, but no rest, really. “Wa wa wa…” like the educator in that strip about a boy and his dog. Dogs. They understand better, sometimes. Big eyes, no kisses. Just presence. They condone. I cringe. Beings can do that too. Try. Just try. 

It’s hard to write the happy stuff. Fury. It comes and goes. Why, I oughta… they pierce. I do too. What a nightmare. Oh yes, I said it. The dark and a thought. No rest for me, no sir. Shrieking and shoes pounding. Sidewalks take the rage. Scared? Me too. 

It’s hard to write the happy stuff. It won’t get there. I won’t, they say. I wink. This fluffiness beside me is inspiration enough. It’ll get the job done. Perpetual solace. No name, though. Just happy thoughts. Happy face, sad face. Happy face, sad face. Happy face… 

Not so hard to write the happy stuff. Effort with a smile. You wanna see? My, my, my aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. I’m filled, that’s all. Circling for an end. For the kill? Nah, for the end. Oh wait, that’s a lie. They shrink. I know. Oh, I know. I’m smiling because of the sword and flame in the clouds. It’ll be there, I promise. More, more, more. No more. Rough and tumble. No more. The pools. No more. Fury? Fury. No. More. See now? They don’t. You know I do. 

Hard to write the happy stuff? Gosh. You tell me.