I find poetry hard to come by.
Prose hidden under tangled tongue and translucent thoughts.
I won’t look at them, straight in the eye.
Know them for the truths they are.

My eyes are covered, and so you are not there
and neither am I.
Playing peek-a-boo with life’s lessons,
when I part my hands,
uncover my eyes,
and stare you down,
will I see with some kind of clarity?

Or will it be like staring out a foggy window,
passing your shirt sleeve over glass to wipe away the droplets,
only to find the mist is on the other side of the pane.

If I had any sense, I would turn and run.
But when did happiness start depending on sensible things?
And when you try to answer this, don’t mistake happiness for its less attractive sibling: contentment.

You can take your sensible sentiments of contentment,
and shove it.

Happiness I starve for,
and will strive for.
Contentment is the less savory meal
that fails to satisfy and nourish.

To some it is tolerable.
But I will tolerate the ridiculous,
combat sorrow and hardships of all kinds,
for just a morsel of that dish we all deserve a little bite of.

I will seek you out with a smile,
Happiness,
until a piece of you is mine.