Happiness

There's something about
This dense sense of happiness
That kills my soul
From inside
The closer I get
To these very living people
In flesh, sweat and sound,
The nearer I find myself
To smell the poisoning herbs
Trapped and anchored
To life,
The less I know
About what happiness really is
And less I know
About who I even want to be.

Death has been
For all these years
My dearest friend
My only companion
To be free
Is to experience
An unending emptyness
A doubtable sort of existance
I never know if I was ever there.

So, I lock myself in.
Turn down the lights in my room.
Pretend I don't exist,
Try to breathe instead.
Because,
If I go out another time,
I will get hurt,
I will wish to get hurt,
And I will search for my pain.