Yellow

I have decided that happiness is not native to earth.

Rather, I believe it to be

stolen

from some far away place

delivered on sun rays,

or rather taken from them,

and swallowed whole here on earth.

Happiness is a drug

we are addicted to from birth

and lose our life searching,

slaving away for.

See, there is not a lot of happiness

to go around.

So instead we take heavy doses of synthetics

at malls and bars and banks,

green in the face with cash and envy,

nuking countries

gunning down people

burning towns

and villages

and God

all in the "pursuit of happiness."

See, I would like my fair share of happiness too,

but it seems I keep getting tanlines

from the wrong sunrays.

And that's okay.

Because even though the grass on my side of the fence

is almost burnt to a crisp

as least it is not the pesticide ridden green grass

of my neighbor

whose hands and feet and lungs rot

because she still has to pull up the weeds

before she sprays again to blind

her child who isn't even four

but all he sees is green.

At least I can pray in my wilting grass

for the strength to endure

while my other neighbor

bleeds himself out through the knees

on his brand-new turf yard

while he demands success

and his fair of happiness

from a God he hasn't seen in years.

See, happiness

isn't green.

It's yellow.

And I know I'm not quite there yet either,

but when the blue skies finally rain down on me

my grass will crunch beneath my feet

the color of sunshine,

the color yellow.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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