Poetry and Happiness and How They Are Related With Regards To Myself (And This Title Is Written With Many Unnecessary Capitals Because It Aggravates Me When a Title Isn't Capitalized Like So)

It's strange how I can churn out nice poems faster when I'm upset. And normally the more upset I am, the nicer the poem turns out. When I'm happy my poems end up rather messed up. That's not good. I can write a happy poem, I know I can. Then why is it that so many of the poems I write are anything but happy? I can be happy. I am happy most of the time. I guess it's just that when I'm happy, I don't tend to want to sit down and write poetry. So most of the time my poetry is churned out when I'm very sad or angry. And you don't expect me to be writing about flowers and kittens and sunshine then. I wonder if that's the case for most people who write poems. Yes, I do know they are called poets, it's just that using it in this context seems to imply that I am a poet, and I don't really see myself as a poet. Although I do write poems quite often, so does that make me a poet by definition? Is that all a poet is, someone who writes poems? Well anyway, if it really is this way for people, perhaps it explains why poetry has this reputation for being gloomy and depressing. Because many people do not like writing poems while they are happy and so they write only when upset, hence naturally the poems turn out pretty grim. So because of the high proportion of unhappy poems, people have higher chances of stumbling upon unhappy than happy poems, and they probably have read more unhappy poems, so they think poetry is an emotional, gloomy, depressing thing.


But you know. That's just my guess

Construction and Demolition

Buildings sprout from the ground, pushing old debris away
They grow tall and wide, and are gone in a day.
They germinate and creep up without making a sound
And then in a second they are razed to the ground
Open your eyes in the morning, a new range of skyscrapers to be seen
Pass again in the evening and they are gone with the wind.
In an urbanized city of shifting and change
The familiar often vanishes to make room for the strange
Nothing lasts forever and indeed they're gone in a flash
In with the new, and the old is out with the trash.
Everything is built and polished and torn down before it can rust.
And shining new replacements spring out amid the stumps of the past
As development rushes on, perhaps can we shed a tear?
For the gone buildings of yesteryear.