O Happiness, What Are You to Me?

Happiness is but a myth of life,  

A satire of it's own design.

It consumes a person's soul,

Through their heart, then their mind.

Happiness is a mystical creature,

Only seen and appreciated by children.

But yet adults strive for it,

Seeking IT in the unknown and unwanted.

O, these adults, grown ups,

The leaders of Ego,

The slaves of Spite.

When will men learn?

They walk the Earth with

Their false smiles,

While happiness fools them into believing they're in bliss.

Men drink what they think is the poison of happiness, 

When really it is just saline;

And they go on with their false smiles

And shrivel up with content.

Happiness is a war men refuse to stop fighting.

Happiness is a torture men love to endure.

If only we can be more like children;

Thier pheonix hearts

and curious eyes open wide

in amazement.

Children appreciate the world put infront of them.

They do not try to find better ones.

Their curious eyes look up and only look down

when giving detail aesthetic sense.

Happiness treasures them and reward

their smiles with laughter.

But happiness only stays with the innocent, 

once that innocense is broken

happiness is unsubstantial.

Happiness?

O, Happiness!

What are you to me?

You are what opens my eyes

when fear shuts them tight!

You are what keeps my pheonix heart alive,

You are simply life trying to survive.

-Brandy Ochoa