Happiness
Is
Overrated

Vibrant and loud,
it slaps the psyche.
Emotional turmoil,
blinded by silence...nothing gives way.
I stand in unwavering doubt,
but needless to say, I’ve leveled up.
Existing in a new world, alone.
Simplicity drifts further away.
Tempted to speak, I opt for movement,
dodging shadowy figures, swimming through the room.
There is no in-between. The choice is simple, or not.
Backing away, void of awkwardness,
thoughts still fluid, flowing toward creation.
My mind wanders to the depths of my studio.
Not every space needs engagement.
Forward momentum, yet unseen.
I exist, however I'm not memorable after-all my creations speak for me—
As they huddle and smirk, point and drink. What is color?
A decisive indifference, striking, yet lost in translation.
My words have no weight here, and neither does my paint.
Stories so perplexing they hold the mind captive,
the heart hostage.

An entanglement of souls, a bipolar catastrophe.
Nothing is simple. Up and down,
simultaneously floating in the abyss; or so I thought.
Begging to be seen, hoping to touch road.
Normalcy was never my goal, only a dream,
a potent nightmare relived nightly.

Left foot, right foot, coaching myself back to sanctity,
to something I can’t name.

Arriving, I lay in a pool of desire,
draining my mind, turning it off.
After all, happiness is overrated—
a lie they tell to give you hope,
a recipe for disaster.
Adjusting my emotions on my sleeve,
I aim to please, but never ask.
Stubborn, I let go of everything.
Level-headed again.
A surface dweller.
One of the common folk
.But how long will it last?
How long will I?