And what if I don’t want happiness?
What if purpose, is my calling?
Would I be less joyful,
if meaning and contentment are my aspirations?
If ever a delusion remains,
fed in all its rabid gluttony,
it’s this appetite and scavenging for happiness.
We scathe, like drug fixed fiends,
like un-sacred things.
Selling our identity,
cheap whores for mundane,
and temporary thrills.