Happiness ›

growing-orbits:

Again I’m trying to explain how all talk is slippery.

See, I might want to convey one thing—frustration, say—
but all that gets conveyed is some other thing—rage—my hand 
coming fast, erratic, menacing.

Who can say how a thing in words turns and flowers like that? 
It happens.

Now say I want to say to you happiness.

No motive. Nothing behind it. 
Just the awareness of a valve suddenly opened and—
happiness!

It’s in the lungs, the bones. 
But somehow all you hear is I don’t need you.

We’re in this room, and you’re not hearing 
how I’m still trying to say this thing to you.

I’ll say it again. Here. Happiness.

Elisabeth Frost

4 months ago on January 22, 2012 at 01:06pm with 38 notes
Via poems.com
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    sheer loveliness
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    Frost, “Happiness”
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