My pockets hold coarse wisdom stones
that have yet to be eroded and known.
No deed has been done with many tears,
and my matter has yet to turn gray.

Except for two dark circles
wrapped snug around no-sleep eyes,
I am pristine, I have soft skin,
no chips or scratches to bear.
So I sought erosion and tragedy
to inspire wise and epic truths,
but to my dismay! all that I found
was that these only come with age.

Constantly, all day and night,
wonderings overpower my sleep;
I fear these truths, that they might burn
the darling rosebud life I built
into a cynic's deadbeat embers.
So to the stars! I beg to see
if even a fleck of goodness
exists past youth's gilded screen.

For I hope that even through cataracts,
the world will still be good,
that wrinkles will forge deep valleys of love,
that gray hair will be streaked with joy.
I hope my dying hands will hold tightly
to my death bed's plastic sides,
I hope to look in terror at Heaven above,
to whisper, with wide fearful eyes,
"Please, I don't want to go"

But for now, I am young and unknowing,
and I embrace my rose-colored light.
The thing is, though, I must know something,
you can call it naivete,
but whether it be with gray hair
or smooth skin, no matter what,
even if I had nothing left,
I'd still use scotch tape to hold back ****** rivers,
to prove to you that there is love.