I told someone today that I’ve never really been happy,

not in the complete sense,

and I’m not sure what it would even look like
to be in that place.

I can maybe make
a list
of what I’ve heard
happiness equates to,

but isn’t that just a construct,
a figment based on surveys and data?

Which should mean something,
but does it? Really?

I’m not so sure any of us really know because
aren’t we all searching for something,
some sort of satisfaction we think we’ll get with

the next fix,
the next kiss?


We search in fruitless fervor,
and we drown in wanting.

Maybe I am happy, and I just don’t know it.
Maybe satisfaction is under my fingertips, and I’ve seemed to have lost my sense of touch.

Who the fuck knows?

I don’t,

so I talk about being unhappy and do nothing because fear has the wheel. It clutches at the leather and yanks me toward oblivion, toward misery and lacking and chaos, bad choices, stupid mistakes, and I can do nothing but talk and watch and pray to a God I’m not sure exists while tears stream and mouths scream for the joy I’ve never felt.



2 thoughts on “Happy 

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