There's a fire beneath my feet,
but not the kind that burns
mountains and ruins girls
made of papier-mâchéno,
these are the sparks that
drive the insane to dance in
the rain; the flames that
gave birth to a million voices
itching to be heard, too.
It's spreading, settling, somewhere deep
beneath my sternum, like an anticipatory
story, waiting to be told, giving
my heart the ardor to beat.
No one ever says happiness
is like a butterfly: beautiful,
flighty, and fleeting.
If you let it slip through your
fingersyou are left
alone, palms full of feathery dust
which soon fades and leads to the scary
questions of indefinite nature.
So instead, you press it
between the pages of a book,
to return to and to marvel at
like a lifetime on a page, more
sublime than words could describe.
It is a gift when your lungs aren't
full of lead, and when the morning sun
rising doesn't scare you out of bed.
It is a treasure to be able
to take in new surroundings and
comprise them into a home
comfortable enough to settle down.
It is a virtue to be able
to shed undesired time, to let
your past be your reasons why,
and not your definition who.
Because fear is the force that
drives masses in droves, and
gives them a history to hate
but a smile is something
divine enough to make you
desire the future.
Those doled out gestures
while simple in design, are
powerful enough to ignite
the fire beneath your feet.