The Little Things
a child in the depths
of a heart pumping 18 years of old.
no form can slide in between it
neither am i worth anything to be sold
for priceless thoughts, memories, and dreams
are the costs of my life; or so it seems.
for what is worth a broken heart?
just another person to be set forth apart?
humor me in riches and things,
because items are indulgence of temporary bindings.
in the eyes of this brown eyed one
there is the ray of the blistering Sun.
For change is change and nothing of worth,
but life in a soul is beauty from birth.
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