The last part of happiness ends as a memory.

For all I know,
I don’t quite remember what
is considered a happy memory.
Is it those past trails when you
still don’t have any idea
of what happiness means
or is it sadness residing itself
as a tumor in your head
from your darkest
room nights?

Did we found something unnoticeable
from those people we meet
every day that made us
wrap our hide to the skin?

They tell you it is something you just don’t
tell people that easily
because people are the back
of their experiences and state
that you just don’t mess with
because you will be found out;

but a stifling conversation with yourself
inside that head
could make so much sense.
The majority refuses this
as a gift.

I stare at the people and their
intellect, their movements,
the inevitable fact that to
clash with them would be my demise.
I have an atom part of God’s senses
and all of it can be felt slightly
through isolation,
regression and weariness.

I am not capable of living like
this any longer as I live it one more
day after the other.