The man said I should
do the thing that makes
me most happy and I’d
never work a day in my
I didn’t know that man
and had no reason to trust
him. He was mysterious and
faceless, without form, airy.
What did he know anyway?
He was just going around giving
bizarre advice to strangers, as if it
were his calling, his work,
A mystery man doling out
motivations for happiness
like some mystic from the East,
a gypsy, a genie, a fortune cookie,
I’ve no evidence what he said
is even remotely true, not for
the likes of me. Middle class,
damaged, mild, addictive,
If the thing that makes you happy
provides no income, no food, no
shelter, no love, no place to sleep,
then the mystery man’s advice is
a trap and a path to ruin.
There are no universal rules to
happiness. There’s no slogan formula
to achieve happiness. There’s no measure
for happiness. No magic phrase from a
Just the choice.
Day by day.
Hour by hour.
Minute by minute.
Poem by poem.