write me poetry (wriggling fish eludes grasp)

"Write me poems,"
she said. "Not that
sonnet, rondeau
crap. Make it formed,
but not formal.
Make it happy,
poignant, heartfelt."

Whew! Tall order.
How to commit
to words which don't
bring despair, don't 
touch my psyche's 
crackling third rail?
'formed, not formal'?

Wrapped around my
neutrality
entwine serpents
of dark, of light,
yet both truthful.
One favors pain,
despair, sadness.

Countering, its
mirror favors
hopeful, joyous
optimism.
But it whispers--
'gainst its brother--
screams less, asks more.

"Everything's great!"
doesn't cut it.
Good news--no news.
Seismic shifts, stabs
to my heart grab
more attention
than goody-ness.

Problems add edge,
life's hoppy bite,
offsetting its 
malty sweetness.
But she challenged!
Can happiness
inspire poems?

My life-garden
hosts tangled plants,
gnarled, tall, choking
new growth. Little
shoots blossom up
regardless, and...
Something happens.

My ultimate
Gardener, my
concept of God
nurtures sprouts, brings
forth fresh flowers
striving to vie
with woody growths.

Despite these new 
optimistic 
upstarts, my soul's
garden remains
wild: poison vines,
weeds, burrs, thorns. No
apologies.

Who am I to
question what grows,
what does not? Why
question my lived 
reality, 
denigrate my 
totality?

Are we happy
now? Are we mired
in hopelessness?
Do we focus 
on pretty new
blossoms? Do we
ignore the whole?

Without yin there's
no yang. Without
black, white on white.
Speak to truth no
matter its source.
Shuffle the deck;
deal ALL its cards.

Thirteen sevens
multiplies two
potent numbers,
magical yet
at odds with each
other. She will
appreciate [this].