Why is writing about something happy so hard?
Is the muse in a perpetually bad mood?
Does her misery love the company of melancholy poets?
Is something inside of me inherently sad?
Does that thing move my pen’s blue ink?
Is the issue not that I am sad but that I am simply not happy?
Does my heart forget to smile and feel nothing?
Or is someone writing through me?
Is someone trying to use me to say how he feels?
Zephyr Spark, what’s wrong?
Why aren’t you happy right now?
How can I help you?