Joy is a thing with Feathers

[tun]

Poetry is clumsy
The lines trip and twist
And stumble into my path
Because they just wanna be noticed.


They scramble to organize themselves
Into legible stanzas
Under the tip of my pen
Watching for my approval with earnest gazes


The metaphors bury themselves deep
In the lines and stanzas
Because they don’t wanna be seen
They wanna sit in the back with the quiet kids
Because they’re too shy to be noticed


And yet they’re literally what makes poetry
poetry.
It’s a twisting trail of confusion.


It’s hard to keep up with. 
Which begs the important question:


Why do I write?
I don’t know.
Half the time I’m crying when I write
My tears mingling with the words on the page


Creating this rancid mixture of grief
And anger
And sadness
And hopelessness


But once in a blue moon
There’s joy
Vivid and bold
So bold it makes my heart sing


Its feathers fluttering as it bursts out of my chest
Disappearing into a cloudless blue sky
My fingers grasping at empty air
where it once was.


Insane isn’t it?


I write about every other emotion except joy
And even when my poetry
Has a joyful connotation
It is tainted with something…darker.
It is always tainted, and that ignites
A flood
Of emotions
In me


Because
I have so much to be joyful about
I have loving friends and family
I have a crush
Someone to love and look forward to


I have my cat
Who is good for nothing
Except being a doorstop
And a beloved cuddle partner


I have my mother
Who is headstrong and no nonsense
But loves me all the same
And I love her too


And yet joy eludes me sometimes
I don’t know why
Maybe…hope isn’t the thing with feathers
Maybe joy is a thing with feathers
Because it seems to fly out of my reach
Whenever it gets a chance.


I try to trap it in a cage
Its sharp beak nips through the bars


I try to tie it down
It tears through the rope.


I grow frustrated with each failed attempt


And I SWEAR TO HIGH HEAVEN
I am so dang close to drop kicking that stupid bird
Into next week
If it don’t stay in the cage


Because happiness is all I’ve ever really wanted


And I AM happy…
But I wonder if I just tell myself that


To make myself feel better
Or if I truly am happy with my life.
What a conundrum!
Usually I like deep questions…
But I don’t think I like this one.

In the first stanza there is rhyme and there is a pulse. The fact that this happens at the start sets up an expectation that it will continue thereafter at some or other interval/s - but it does not - therefore there is disappointment, inevitably. If this pulse of rhyme and rhythm had been deployed at a later stage, as an accent or support for the meaning in an incidental moment - or at the end as a final flourish, this would have produced gratification rather than expectation and disappointment. As it is now, it feels like a promise of delight that is not honoured.