This Is A Happy Poem.

I write about darkness too often, I write about death and turn it into something

delicious. I guess that is the thing about writers; we need to transform things

and make them new.

Death to glory. Love and agony.

So what do I do when I need to write about you-

Who deserves only sunlight.

I mull over ideas in my head, turning them over and inspecting them like

little dolls that I am modeling, placing words over them then tilting my head

this way and that, doesn't look quite right

so move on to the next.

What can I say about you that-

you haven't already heard.

I clap my hands, metaphorically of course, and my brain rushes to answer

the demand, chop! chop! the gears start turning and I need to

focus on one, the prettiest, most natural model, of all

You and me and the words I'm too embarassed to share.

You and me

and our lips-

But it is an unknown, and maybe I could write about that

Fifty Shades of a First Kiss

would our noses bump, would my palms be sweaty, would

your mouth be open or closed

who knows...

What a dangerous fascination us writers have, confusing

fantasy and reality.

Writer's Block,

writer's block-the workers in my head sit down.

And maybe they were right, maybe they have been this whole time

there are none

no words, to describe us-you me or what that moment would be like

let it be, let it be, they sing it softly, patting my head

acknowledging my love and need for their reckoning.

It is reassuring

and this,

well this

is a Happy Poem.

For you.

And me.

And the words that will never say enough.