right now

happiness

is not on the bottom of my shoe, or a bottle,
or a phase,
nor
under the words i heard myself say, in a daze,
or in place
of my
face
or the lack of grace i entertain,
time
and time
and time again
and when how why do i
make such
incoherent lies
or utter
fake
sighs

('cause
when i spy
with my little eye
something that is
so real
i can't
bear
to
feel
it,
i don a disguise
the one
that
makes fake plays, sideways
lost in a freak maze,
turns the wrong way
again
and
again)


and i speak
nothings
freely
and weakly
ask me
i'll speak free
of nothing,
don't believe me

i knew what i was talking about,
once.
and seem to deny it ever since.
but my truth
left
prints
that consistently convince
me
that all else
is a
waste
of
time

so i resign
from my position
as
ignorantly blissed out
right
now