I want to be happy.
I say.
We say.
But I find myself grasping for paper.
So delicate
but not more
then the memories that fade away.
We put a price to the paper.
The paper's all we want.
My mind grows weak
and my heart remains soft.
They say that those with paper
find happiness better,
easier.
While those without struggle
and nevertheless, linger.
On this unfathomable material
that means nothing
untouched.
What matters are the souls
that live.
We love too little,
and want too much.
We take for granted,
what we already have.
I live in the future,
thinking it's stressful and sad.
I'm already grateful,
of what I've been given.
Happiness is not the things that I live in.
Or what I've bought,
what I've taken.
Humans are beaten and broken.
And it's funny how we turn to paper,
to try to hold us up.
But you are my happiness.
You are more than enough.