little things

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Leaves fall off into the world below Like how raindrops kiss the pavement and asphalt  Leaving a trail of existence that will soon disperse 
Growing up is tough. Requires a lot of self- Trust Often times  You can misjudged  Situations  Where there is 
i awake, ready to enter again into this poem called life. to filter the moments,  the quivering of water’s meniscus in a plastic bottle, how each person holds his pen differently,
Dear Author,  
When people ask me about youI tell them that you hate asparagusBut delight in broccoliI tell them about how you tell stories Like t
It’s the little things…. Like the way you play with my hair to ease me to sleep, Or how you brush it out of my face, look into my eyes, with yours so full of joy, before you kiss me.
Every morning It all begins again Wake up with the memories Of yesterday Was it great or did you want it to end? It's all a cycle Everyday is the same Everyday is the same
Sweet, a piece of summer in the midst of winter Salty, a silly song sung over a meal well made Sour, the pang of unkind words unexpectedly turning into laughter Savory, the rich sunlight
  Little Things They say that’s what it’s all about. Perhaps even the things you can’t live without.   That little thing holds back all the little ticks in my head that are coming out, oh god
I am a kiss I am the rain the knot in my stomach when I step on stage the words I pen with my own hand and the rings on the table left behind by my half-fnished mug of peppermint tea.
My sunlight, you bring the daytime smiles and keep them from slipping.   One table for two. We wake from slumber in a café of our own, settled in the heat of blankets
I am from long winding roads,  from polaroid photos and old story books,  I am from the brick house at the dead end street, laughter and comfort. I am from the tall trees,  the snowflakes, 
Poor little thing,Your weakness lies within your strength. Presenting as a monument,So strong and assuring,No one bothered checking For those cracks in the porcelain. They saw the sculpture 
The bus clanks and shudders along the broken roads; My pencil jerks from my hand, And the broken roads are mirrored in line breaking My page with its marred stroke. My eraser jumps across the page as I erase
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