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I’m currently doing an assignment on poetry and all of the texts I can choose from are very depressing. So, I wrote this:

On the whole I found this poetry uninviting,
As if poets spend their saddest moments writing.

Their joys are repressed,
and sadness addressed.

I found no love or peace
or happier things,
Just cruelty and death
and the pain that life brings.

I don’t understand.
Life is for living.
You make the most of
the moments you’re given.

Or spend your time focused
on depression and waste,
Dwelling in sadness
and savouring its taste.

I guess that it’s true,
both realities are real,
and writers just write
whatever they feel,

but, this emptiness,this lack
of joy, it pains me.
I can’t help but hurt
in a deep sympathy.

I can see where they’ve been,
what they’ve done, why they’ve done it,
How there’s this joyless, endless race
and they’ve decided to run it.

I wish we could stop
and take a step back,
To notice the good things
where there’s a lack.

Instead of holding life’s lemons,
squeezing their juice into our eyes,
Perhaps we could try harder
to make lemon pies.

You can justify,
Your own need to cry,
The reasons why,
pile incredibly high.

I for one,
Think that’s no fun,
I’ll search for the sun,
Until a new day has begun.

As a tentative poet,
Spinning awkward phrases,
I hope to find life’s fulfilling,
In all of its phases.

I know that’s not right,
The future’s not always bright,

But it’s nice to imagine it can be.