A Love Manifesto to the Masses

If you’re waiting for life to award you a prize, A "Happiness Trophy" for opening your eyes, you’ll be waiting quite long—it’s a bitter old birth— 'til the sun grows too large and swallows the Earth.

The news is a dumpster fire, roaring and red, the coffee machine sounds like ghosts in the shed. The guy in the fast lane just gave me a sign That wasn't "Peace Sister" or "Everything's Fine."

If I let the world dictate the state of my soul, I’d be under my desk like a miserable troll, feeding on dust bunnies, fueled by my spite, Hiding away from the morning’s first light.

But instead? I choose joy.

I can hear all the cynics, I see the eye-roll, From the "Daves" of the world who lack any control. Dave clutches his kale with a sneer and a sigh, Looking like someone just spat in his eye.

"Must be nice in your bubble," he says with a moan, "ignoring the fact that the world is a loan, With structural cracks and a society falling!" (Honestly, Dave, your vibe is appalling.)

I see all the cracks and the mess and the gloom, I just won't build a house in the center of doom. It isn’t delusion or wearing a blindfold; It’s survival—a story that needs to be told.

Choosing a smile is a rebel’s decree, An act of guerrilla warfare for me. It offends every person who’s made it their goal to let being stressed-out inhabit their soul.  Here is my manifesto, scientific and true, The "Rules of the Happy" I’m passing to you:

We are ghosts made of stars, driving skeletons through the great cosmic bars.   Life is too short and the space-rock too fast, To spend my whole Tuesday stuck in the past.  

If you bring me your "Actuallys," I’ll tune out your logic and grim factualities. Your voice becomes muffled, a wah-wah-wah sound, like a Charlie Brown adult who’s too tightly wound.  

I take wins where I can, like matching my socks—that’s a hell of a plan!   If I don't trip today, I’ll head straight to the bank; It’s a victory, frankly, and one I will thank.

Some people feel safer when everything’s gray, like a damp, cozy basement where shadows all play. 
But if my good mood makes you bitter and cross? Bite my ass. It’s your own damn loss.

I’m busy enjoying this mediocre bread, And the fact that I’m living and not currently dead. I don't have the outfits for mourning and woe, the alternative’s tiring, and I’ve got places to go.

Happiness isn't a finish-line tape, or a place we arrive at to finally escape. 
It’s the fuel in the engine, the grit in the gears, the way that we handle our problems and fears.

So I’ll keep on choosing it, stubborn and loud, With a bit of a smirk and my head in a cloud.

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