A Poet’s Journal Entry
Ethan McKnight

I wonder if I can write about happiness.
But most days, smiling is hard enough.
If my poems made me feel good,
The ink in my journal would be white.
For now it’s just black stains on a blank canvas.

Wonder what other writers would do.
Poe would make silver bells ring,
Then feed it to ravens in the sky
When the crowd carried torches to his home.

I feel his pain.
‘Cause when silver isn’t enough,
They want black wings.
And when you don’t give them shadows,
They make sure you live in them.

I just want to be like John Ashbery,
Hide my insecurities behind pretentious language,
Build a throne on empty words
While others miss the point.

I don’t like his work.
But I relate to his struggle.
It’s hard to speak plainly.
Easier to make a puzzle.
Let them figure out what I’m afraid to say.

It makes me feel smarter.
And maybe I can fool the editors
Into thinking I belong here.

If you’re wondering what the point is to this,
There isn’t one in all honesty.
But I really enjoy random things.
On this page, I am the creator.
And I made my own happiness.