Nobody in this poem says what "it" is, and that gap is where everything happens. The speaker puts "it" away, tries to change "it," tries to make "it" better, and none of it works. By the last line the problem has quietly shifted. What began as fixing an object turns out to be a search for a feeling. The central idea is that effort and movement are not the same as relief, and that the simplest wish, to be happy, can be the hardest one to say.
The opening lines pull in two directions. "I put it away" suggests hiding something, while "Tried to change it" suggests working on it obsessively. The speaker is avoiding and fussing at the same time. The text never tells us whether "it" is an object, a memory or a part of the speaker's own character, and that vagueness is deliberate in effect, because readers can fill the word with their own trouble. The capital letter in "Make It better" may be a slip, but read generously it turns "It" into something close to a proper noun, a thing with weight. Notice also how the sentences lose their subjects: "Tried," "Make," "Thought." The "I" keeps dropping out, as if the speaker is half absent from their own account.
The word "better" appears twice, and the shift between the two uses is the poem's quiet turning point. First the speaker wants to make *it* better, then to *feel* better. The target moves from the problem to the person without any announcement.
Structurally, this is free verse, with no rhyme and no regular beat. Almost every line is a short statement closed by a full stop, so the poem moves in small, blunt steps. The longest line, "Thought moving around would make me feel better," comes right after "But I ran in circles," and it feels like a hopeful breath let out too quickly. "Ran in circles" works literally, since the speaker really did move around, and as the idiom for effort that goes nowhere. The poem doesn't choose between the two, and it doesn't need to.
The one real image arrives next: "Like the sky when it moves. / The clouds look so happy." Strictly, the sky doesn't move, the clouds do, but the slip is touching. The speaker pictures the whole sky drifting, enormous and effortless. That is the exact opposite of running in circles, where there is plenty of effort and no travel. The clouds go somewhere without trying. Judging by the phrasing, the speaker can't know whether clouds are happy, so they are reading their own longing into the view. "So happy" is an unguarded, almost childlike intensifier, and it lowers the poem's defences just before the ending.
That ending is where the poem lands. "That's what I want to be. / Happy." The final word gets its own line, after a full stop, as though the speaker has finally stopped running. "Want to be" matters too. It is not "I am" or even "I will be," and the whole distance of the poem sits in that phrase. "Happy" is also a soft word, two syllables with the stress falling away at the end, so the voice trails off rather than landing firmly. It repeats the word used for the clouds, but now it is a wish and not an observation.
The title, "Found," sits ironically against all this, since nothing seems to be found in the usual sense. One reading, an inference from the text, is that what the speaker finds is the honest name for what they have been after all along. Another is that the thing "put away" at the start has been found again. The poem supports both.
What makes it worth reading is its restraint. It doesn't pile up metaphors or explain itself, and it uses a single comparison and a single plain confession. It captures a feeling many readers will know, the hope that staying busy or fixing something will fix you, and the moment you admit you simply wanted to feel lighter. By refusing to say what "it" is, the poem lets that admission belong to anyone who reads it.