Only the individual can truly make themselves happy, so why don't we?
in tune, a tone-
inflared of rosen
situated heart-resin,
remaining half awaited
and gripping chords
as out-streched hands;
sudden reminders,
and reality shone
down winding tunnels,
adorned; flowery scrawl-
as messages soften
and aesthetics deepen
into a muted low-end
of sub ringing doubt-
and my hands are now
my lungs, and im the surgeon
ailing for salvation
from feverent desire;
emotions vast upheavals,
first pure, then tainted
so much in this multi-layered poem... and yes, we hold the power to our our happiness