in happiness

I attempt to write in happiness, not cynicism of life as I usually do,
but all that comes out is a contemplation for what cannot be.
All I see is negativity. It is comforting in response to my happy soul,
Rain pouring softly on my neck and down my spine, falling in puddles
at my feet.
I cannot stomp, satiated, into dry grass.
Only when it bubbles below my pressing toes and desire, rising up at my will
can the words be owned as I command.
There is a safety in sadness. Here I cannot fail.
Here, expectations like hope disappear, and every twisted stomach
can relax into deflated desperation; find true solace in the pit-fall that is life.
My eyes open staring at ground to which I long ago surrendered,
finding muddy dirt at their brim, stinging. It is painful here, where all the trees began,
though easy.
Only hands can help me up, but my own are dirty and immobile.
So I lie, cringing, and try to sleep, eternally.