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Concussive Happiness

Christopher Hanson

A group of friends,
A gathering,
Overlapped
And away,
Persists
Where all know all
With,
“You think you know me?”
In the all too honest background.

An answer to the above –
Our assumed empathy exists,
When truthfully
It truthfully eludes -
“You think I know you?”

“I”
Or rather the
“We” in the “here”
And “now” -
A lesser form,
And not our truest,
Hides the “real” and deep within.

Each has a pain,
Relatively at least
And perhaps our only concrete notion
Of who the “other” is.
A non-biological truth
Founded upon
A shared organic ancestry
Where
The skeletons in the closet
Translate as -
Lacks of ambition,
Ambiguous futures (at best),
Swept away addictions
And tears in the night,
Torture.

We shed our daily frown,
For a fake smile,
A facsimile
And play for the pains we do not share.
Its a place
Where the hidden words,
The bad words,
The blasphemous words
Slip -
“Help me!”
And just as quickly
Retract -
“Never mind.”

We hide it deep
And hide it well,
Because it’s when it’s
Shared
That we become what we try to
Avoid -
Attached
And in fear of losing
Each other.

Thus remains –
The perversion of perception.
As we hold to this
State of confused,
Or concussive,
Happiness.
And only later will we all cry,
As we’ve all gone home
And alone.

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