I design my future bright not by where my life has been.
And I try, try, try, try, try again.
To only find out the heart of a young girl as vurnarable and brittle
As easily torn and scattered by words and remembrances
Age speaks a mere number; as it serves plain in color
It does insignificant for the fruit to ripen
If anything, somewhat backwards but somehow manage to have its way of becoming still
I’m glad to be alive