(Happy?) Birthday.

Dear me,

dear myself,

dear I,

or anyone else,

Yesterday I turned five, each candle, one year.

Every auntie and uncle; all I loved? Gathered here.

“Happy birthday to me!” I thought with a laugh,

Then suddenly it hit me; so I figured I’d ask:

“What’s happiness, Grandpa?” I asked simple and curt.

“Well happiness? That’s easy,” kissed my forehead and smirked.

“Happiness,” he replied, “comes from what you give to others!

Be it family, or friends, or just a smile on your mother!

To be happy is easy; all you really have to do

is give happiness to others, and it’ll come back to you.”

Dear me,

dear myself,

am I really dear

to anyone else?

Yesterday I turned eighteen—finally a man—

no family at this party; only whiskey laid our plans.

Shot after shot burned its way through my chest;

when suddenly it hit me: why not lay this to rest?

“What’s happiness, really?” I spat to my friend.

“Happiness? That’s easy!” slurring hard as he yelled:

“Happiness is the moment; living life hard and fast.

It’s numbing what sucks with whatever will last!

Cigarettes and whiskey, they both work fine for me,

I’m alive and still smiling, happy, as can be!”

Dear me,

fuck yourself,

dear only to I

and no one else,

Yesterday I turned forty, one ex-wife and two kids.

Divorces trump birthdays, smiles, and gifts.

I sighed as I slumped in that heavy court chair,

I still had no answer; wasn’t sure why I cared.

“What’s happiness? Please; I just want the truth!”

I stammered to her, knowing no one else in the room.

“Happiness? Hah! You’re one naive fuck!

There is no such thing!” sneered my own Lady Luck.

“You’re born, then you live for a bit ’till you die!

That’s the sad truth; happiness? What a lie.”

Dearest me?

go fuck yourself.

I just wish I were dear

to anyone else.

Well, I turned eighty-eight today, as the rain sung to me,

out of tune—soft and thin—but it was music; it was free.

Part rapture, part moments, it bled beauty in small bits.

Each piece of each person, each lesson a puzzle unfit.

Dear me,

dear myself,

dear I,

dear no one else,

“Happiness, isn’t karma, nor smiles, nor a hug,

nor cynicism, nor whiskey, nor lying, nor drugs.

It’s catharsis, it’s truth, it’s to truly be free!”

Then the gun dropped and lay,

as did I—

happily.