I don’t like writing sad poetry.
It’s not a place I choose to see.
In my world of goodness, all are free,
where faces of children are full of glee.
Hope and happiness is how it should be.
Yet pencils ever dull in reality,
so I hone my points, turn’s the key.
Returning I do to the safety of fantasy.
I think that’s best, don’t you agree?
Or is everything escape in poetry?