Monday

People tell me that I should write a "happy" poem

But what even is a happy poem? 
Is happiness even a sufficient way to describe the millions upon billions of emotions that are toppled on me day after day
With only happiness taking up a mere sliver of my color wheel of emotions, guarded by frustration and pain
So what exactly is happiness?
How does one write a poem about happiness?
Something the poet is "happy" about?
Alright, let's start at square 1:
 

Happiness is the smell of the air after a rainstorm 
Happiness is receiving a smile at 8 o'clock in the morning on a Monday 
Happiness is talking about conspiracies instead of math 
Happiness is sitting in between an artist and a die-hard Taylor Swift fan
Happiness is walking an eighth of a mile to learn about the lack of women’s rights, only to stop and think about the progress that my gender has made in society.

Happiness is gathering as a community to learn about the world we are shaping

Happiness is a S’mores pop-tart at 10:15 in the morning.

Happiness is not being able to blow things up in Chemistry, but always keeping the possibilities locked in your head waiting for the next perfect opportunity to bring it up again.

Happiness is lunch, right at the lunch rush.

Happiness is a salad: dry; a glass of water, and a great piece of chocolate cake.

Happiness is talking about Hamlet, and then theorizing about his madness and the fact that everyone ends up dead: the common trend.

Happiness is thinking, listening, writing, smelling, tasting, and seeing in a different language.

Happiness is a light mist that tickles the face with the touch of an infant.

Happiness is having an extra fifty minutes of nothing to do before the next commitment.

Happiness is sharing the afternoon with teammates, with the only people that actually understand what you’re going through day after day, the only people who can relate 100% of the time.

Happiness is dinner. Period.

But happiness is also homework; a time to reflect on all of the things that flowed in and out of the mind, attaching themselves to the long term memory, all of which happens while cramming for an end-of-the-quarter assessment.

Happiness is super clean, an excuse to get your somewhat messy roommate to clean up her side of the room.

Happiness is check-in.

Happiness is picking up a new book to only read a chapter before exhaustion hits.

Happiness is brushing your teeth.

And finally, when it’s eleven at night, and your muscles ache, your head is ready to explode, and all you want is to sleep, you think:

Yeah,
Happiness is sometimes a Monday...

This poem is about: 
Me
My community

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