Attention

It calls for my attention,

the rose in the garden.

The beauty it displays captures my soul.

I water her, I sing to her, I listen to her.

Whatever the rose wants from me it gets.

I try to stay away for I know the attention paid is not healthy,

but the image dances in my mind.

So vivid, so fragrant.  

I must take the rose,

but her thorns sting my clasp.

My attention she want and she got, 

but her beauty I want and shall not have. 

Happiness

I struggle to define happiness.

In a sense I know what it is, everyone does.

That laugh, that smile, that feeling, you know it.

Where does it stem from?

Where are its roots?

Happiness cannot be bought,

but when my joy is blinded by my debts

it must have a price.

Or am I blind,
unable to see what I long for.
Associating it with the satisfying of my material desires.
The answer is not simple, nor will I be able to define this word soon.