I try and paint a picture of what happiness looks like to me, but for some reason it always comes out blank. I try and use my poetry to describe the feeling of what I want my happiness to be, and I become confused and the words jumble into nothingness. I sometimes see this as a sign that I was never meant to be happy. That my happiness is subjected to become something I could never understand or apprehend. I grew up thinking happiness was for everyone. I later learned about depression and found that everything was a lie. My friends ask me what makes me happy, and the only thing that comes up is the idea and concepts of what happiness is, but I never can say what my happiness is. I know I want Love, but does Love want me?