Baby, you are soda-pop and candid smiles,
Your voice as mellow as a crackling campfire,
Word choice spluttering across others canvas',
Everyone who is blind dresses you within the silk of your hair,
reminding, "you are off to do something great."
But you're still a work in progress,
"Hard to get", copper hearts snicker,
as they pour their spirit into shot glasses.
They're right. You are hard to get.
Never playing a game,
staying out of chambers that echo,
keeping the change from centuries of revolutionaries,
in your back pocket.
Like if you lost them, you won't be held accountable for yourself.
Baby, remember, you are more complex than a snowflake.
Marvelling over marbled masterpieces,
misjudging your merit,
Those whose eyes are painted in saturated hues,
Who can look directly into your kaleidoscope-like eyes,
Will invoke, "try harder."
And Baby, you will.
The one who burned their hands giving you the sun,
will scoop your body that is as heavy as your first heartbreak,
into their scarred arms.
They will caution you to, "not forget what home smells like."
So, Baby, you should.
You should go off to do something great,
You should try harder,
and Baby, have your compass set to home.
Does any of this makes sense? I'm trying to figure out how to end it? Do you have any advice? Hope you enjoyed this poem :)