There is fake silver that hangs upon my chest,
and in time it will chip away.
Silver, sliver by sliver,
until it's nothing.
But for now it protects me, and brings mental peace.

I'm drawing from the small things.
I steal the life to feed my starving words,
so as not to write with poison,
so as not to taint blameless paper.
I'm drawing from the small things.

There are red roses in my room, on black wood,
and when the sunlight filters slightly,
well it's the most beautiful sight.
And in time the petals will shrivel and fall.
But for now, I smile -
and it seems to be enough.

I'm falling in love with the small things,
tremendous in my eyes, tremendous at my fingertips.

When she laughs, my mind clears,
if only for a second, but I'm grateful for the life she offers me,
unknowingly.

And I didn't realize my arms had enough strength
or were even worthy to hold the world;
my world.
They tremble, and I'm afraid they'll give out.
But I cannot deny that I'm in love with the life I hold close.

I feed off of the small, tremendous instances.
They redeem my thoughts, thus my words.
For the sake of peace of mind, and inkflow.