I write poetry when I am sad, mad or bad. Wonder why rhyme eludes me in happy moments. Like probably I would never see a field of daffodils the way Wordsworth did, or a brook like Tennyson danced along with. I can only see the blood and gore of war, the heartbreak in love, a hundred years of solitude and the unbearable lightness of being.
What do I enjoy so much that I could write about. Write a song on the wonderful world like someone in Discovery Channel did. (Watch it on YouTube, "The world is just amesome"... luurve it totally) An ode to the love I can see in certain pair of eyes. A sonnet on my lovely workplace. In the least a limerick on shopping till my bank account goes bust... even a haiku on window shopping.
You know like...
Wonderlands glimpsed through
A million things to own
If only pocket would permit!
My next poem will be a happy one. Promise.