my happiness dies, and is reborn
like a cloud of a storm
that appears to be gone,
but then it will reform
it is like trying to grab
the rose only to be pricked
by the ugliness of the thorn
or being stung by its bee
but still you always try to be
able to smell the sweet sent
and always love when they are present
so you welcome the stinger, and the rain
and all the thorns with the rose bush
and continue to always push
for those times when no matter the trail
no saddness can ever make you not smile