Pleasure is not pleasant, as defined
By Webster: it is very far beyond.
Pleasant things are kindlily inclined:
Those thoughts of which we are but somewhat fond.
Pleasure hits the senses harder, flings
Itself upon them, makes them self-aware;
It does not lie a-lurking in the wings,
But beards us with abandon. When it's there
We know it. Pleasant things can be ignored,
Contentment overwashes them with white.
I do not mean those pleased are always bored,
But merely that the existential fright
Of pleasure is not present - it can be
But need not when we do things pleasantly.
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