Busy being happy

I often wondered

Why all the words

I put on paper

Seemed weighed down

By melancholy.

I considered myself

A happy guy

Or at least

Just sad enough

To be sane.

So where were

The words,

The happy words,

That could prove

This was the case?

I knew the answer

As soon as I

Considered it.

When I was happy

I was busy

Being happy.

I was marvelling

At the whole

Fucking thing

Trying to understand

Why I wouldn’t

Feel like this

All the time.

So I didn’t write

When I was happy

Because I was busy

Being happy.

It was sad though

Because

The words,

My comrades,

The ones that

I turned to

When things

Went south

Only ever appeared

To represent

Misery.

A perpetual cycle

Fuelled by the fact

That I was doing

What I thought

I was supposed to do

When I was happy.

I thought I was

Supposed to

Be busy

Being happy.

I resolved to write more

In the good times

Write when the dice

Rolled my way.

Write when I got

Every green light.

Write when

A pretty stranger

Smiled at me.

Write when

All the tiny

Binary

Chances lined up

Or whatever it was

That defined

A good day.

Write about it all

To find the pattern

The key

The secret

The truth.

To replicate

Duplicate

The feeling.

Write

Was all I’d need to do.

But right then I realised

If I did just that

I would be too busy

Writing

To be happy.