Death of Poetry

Happiness is a sacred commodity, it really is. And that’s the eternal basis of marketing- “Buy this, you’ll be happy,” “this will solve all your problems…”
Happiness is like Helium to me, fast disappearing, yet people keep stealing it and stuffing it into plastic sheaths.
Petty fun, petty nonsense. Don’t steal the last shreds of my joy for that. Please?
There’s no one to listen; everyone drowning in their own fun.
Rain splatters against the ground, hits the window glass, slams down noisily. Newly green, newly clean. This was my joy; the rains made me happy, the lack of sun had always filled me with joy.
But there isn’t any happiness to sanction anymore and no more joy to feel. Rain is just gloomy now and I am just sad.

2 thoughts on “Death of Poetry

  1. Quite alive, the words make the post feel and real becomes the sadness for the reader too.

    Maybe only from a distance can we cherish now the joy we were able to feel from simple little things.
    Great post.!

    Liked by 1 person

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