The Happy Poet

A great artist must suffer, they say.
I’m afraid that’s just not me.
All the problems that I face in life,
Are often solved too easily.

I’m not in the least bit oppressed, or
Dying or gay or extreme.
The only adventures that I have,
Are the ones that I have when I dream.

I tried emo, that didn’t suit me,
The angst was too much hard work.
Plus I know I ain’t no great poet,
Cause I can’t always find rhymes that work.

I’m far to happy to aspire to Plath,
Dickinson's simply too mild.
Can’t seem to go quite as dark as Poe
Not sarcastic enough to be Wilde.

So now it’s abundantly clear to me
I could be a great artist, except
I’m far too content, far too happy,
That’s something I have to accept.