the price of poetry

i wonder about why
almost all my poems are sad.

think of my younger self,
solemnly vowing
to only distil positivity into
my words.
vows i have broken
over and over again.

it seems unfair to let
my pain and grief endure.
immortalise them in
verse and metaphor,
while good days slip
through my fingers
faster than sand,
memories of laughter
turning into wisps.

but i do not know
how to articulate my joy.
i am too busy feeling it.
on days where it overflows,
dripping through every
pore in my body,
i collect the drops
and coax them into words.
clumsy, waddling lines
arrange themselves
into crooked patterns.

the hallmark of happiness
seems to be disarray.
limbs thrown over each other,
loose chuckles colouring the air.

while sadness forces me
into perfect stillness.
holding every muscle
in my body taut.
i cannot get out of bed.

all i can think of is writing.
putting away the emotions
until they do not bother me anymore.
oh, what obliging emotions
that settle comfortably
into syllables,
donning eloquent disguises
of word-perfect poetry.

i wonder about why
almost all my poems are sad.

perhaps it is a blessing.
the passing cloud
turning into art.