Will you please read this poem I have written and comment on its subject matter?

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The Rules of the Game

Happiness is crawling on your face,
a glistening glass of wine
that satisfies without excess.
We watch them together,
they tumble in safe spirals
down the empty hillside,
hanging like defeat
on a slick blade of whetted grass,
dead not from winter
but from wishing,
rained on and over-killed
by comfortable pleasures.

Pleasure
is their crass ideal,
one we cannot strive towards,
that festers in the structured womb
and destroys the grass
before summer
finds its legs.

Run,
now.
We will watch
until you are gone.
Perhaps a different title, taken from this crib sheet that I found under my desk, near a giant ball of dust>>
"The Rules of The Poetic Game That We Are Forced To Play Because If We Don't We Can't Be Heard By Those That Claim To Have More Insight Into Poetry Through The Structured Prison/Wombs They Grew Up Sniveling In."
 
Not sure who the "they" of this work is, but it seems like the average person in a western society who has, and takes for granted, all the small safe pleasures of life. The speaker(s) are warning, or compelling, a third party to avoid this type of life. They propose to save the third party from being seduced by the empty but safe existence waiting for them and urge them to get away as fast as possible. There could be a number of 'types' fitting the bill in your poem. This could be a free-spirited older person speaking to a youngster about making a valuable and thoughtful life, in opposition to 'they' (parents, standard schools, church).
You didn't asked for a critique of the poem, but I'll tell you anyway that I admire the structure.
 
Born to either strive die we might try to live.We dont choose who will be our parents.Hard lives struggling to live.Happiness we want, its the hardships that make us sad.Sitting lonely , fake identiy, wishing for more but getting less. Wishing to die before our time.Only doing what we can to substain us from one week, one hour at a time.
 
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