Happiness

Ask me to describe the sun in the sky.
Demand no cliche,
but ask for cliche and that's what I'll get.
Ask for unique,
and skinny jeans, torn high tops, and cut-neck tees
adorn young poets.

Pastels blend rainbows down grated canvas
because only inexperience tries to compromise.
My sin is myself,
and my description is Clarisse's.
My face is like the moon.

Or did I forget to read Fehrenheit 451?
Because it was not a pleasure to burn
the face of I've read it's and I knew it's.

Describe happiness, and I tell myself
of the bird in the sky dancing with walking clouds.
Bravery mixes with happiness
when happiness floats like a feather to the moon,
and fear dissapears in Mars' pink summer glow.