The human heart is a world of its own
Access into it is one of the hardest things I know
The inhabitants hardly come out as well
And when they do, they disguise most times

They have a veil of sweet words
Often give you a different impression
It would take proper examination
To see the main intention

If you can take an aerial view of most hearts
It's darker than KitKat
Please when you find a pure heart
Give it the respect it deserves!

A kind of man’s woman
a startling figure, carried well
well into her
(not to be spoken of) age

Wielding the kind of handshake to shake the world
with eye-catching stature to amplify strength of character
a hand shake with promise
strong, not arrogant
purposeful, not side-tracked
somehow elegant without being pretentious

Application of an undeniable grace, a composure recognized through trained eye
confident, yet curious
dedicated, yet flexible
complete packages are so rare, so uncommon, so worthwhile finding in
times of fake hair, fake nails, fake news

My Yin/Yang were caught guard down,
offering Shrek-like devotion to a park-side folk music princess

She need only shake hands, introduce herself with no ulterior motive
unencumbered by small talk, past pleasantries

Chivalry would have me drive her to the ends of a flat earth
and we’d only just met

Tomorrow is my tomorrow
My one and only chance to make
a second impression.

There was a time where gifts mattered more than time.
There was a time where the number of friends mattered more than the kind.
There was a time where taste mattered more than the fulfillment.
There was a time where grades mattered more than character.
There was a time where looks mattered more than the heart.
There was a time where self mattered more than another.
There was a time where our minds changed and our priorities shifted and that was the time we matured.

We all like to think
     Our lives as though they're
           Stories,

And ourselves to be
     The hero, grand and shining
          In some tale yet to be written,

An underdog,
     Burdened with the weight of the world,
          Waiting for that lucky break,

But sometimes our final act
    Never resolves to an exciting conclusion,
         Because no one is guaranteed anything more
              Than the role of a background character

In someone else's saga,
     Prose proposed entirely devoid
          Of our own happy endings.

I've found like most things I've
come to know, I'm just
A shadow of my
former
self.

Sometimes, I feel so little.
I wonder, am I human?
Or just a machine?