content in poetry

we live in this culture that
profits off never letting us
feel contentment, that forces
us to always striving but also
almost never helps us feel better

aspiration has its uses
I’ve been told I guess
but never feel guilty
to be happy
be happy

never let them tell you
happiness holds you back
that happiness makes you
soft or weak or complacent
it’s not settling to be happy
it is, well, it’s being happy
don’t let them tell you that
there’s always another mountain
to climb after this mountain you
busted your ass to get up and over
they’re just doing it to sell you
newer and more expensive toothpaste
newer and more expensive deodorants
newer and more opulent dreams rife
with planned obsolesence added to
the construction of that opulence

the more that they inject
unattainable ideals into
our ratcheted-open eyes
the less we “settle” for
possibilities that could provide
us with joy and contentment
the more profitable we are
farming out our own exploitation
chasing expensive frivolities to
temporarily blot out our misery
that cycle of endless desire
baked into the cake of commerce

if you only accept your ideal car
you’ll never get out of your house
if you only accept your ideal job
you’ll never be of use to anyone
if you only accept your ideal lover
you will go through this life
without knowing love at all

they don’t want us to know
contentment, they just want
to sell us content and then
keep selling it again and again
until the day we die unhappy
don’t let them win
allow yourself the
peace of being happy
let yourself be happy