Sometimes happiness
Slips its self over you
Like a freshly washed sheet.
It is so light and soft
That you can’t feel it
Trying to seep in to every one
Of your pores.
Happiness is not served on a silver platter,
It is not packaged in a tiny box with a bow.
It does not always feel
Like sun on your back
And smell
Like flowers.
You may never realize that it was there
Until you find yourself searching for it again.
Happiness is tucked away in the corners of everything
beautiful.
It hides between the dusty strings of an old guitar,
In the creases of maps that depict all the places you have yet
to see,
And in the little rays of sun that peak through the trees and
then vanish.
It is slipped into the dreams of the open-minded,
Nestled between the kind words of a stranger,
And is seeping between pages of a good story.
Happiness is resting in the attic eaves of your mind,
It is twirled around memories,
Strewn across bridges
And road sides
And grassy hills
That you forgot to notice while you were diving past.
Happiness is not something that you can go looking for.
It will simply reveal itself to you if you let it,
And you will see
That it has been there all along.
Happiness is not anything that you can purchase
Even at the most remote street market,
In a town
that isn't plotted on any map.
It is simply a feeling that every person has within
themselves,
But may neglect to notice,
Waiting,
Like a child on Christmas Eve,
For the permission to be let out of its cage
Completely.
