The Young at heart are forever;

Forever as words are infinite.

Bodies may grow through awkward stages.

Stages where arms are lanky,

Legs are stocky,

And voices elevate to shrieks and shrills

Or drop octaves to resonate bass like drum sets.

But these changes don’t obscure the visionary Young at heart.

The Young at heart grow old, to decay physically in decrepitude.

But there is not weakness of the soul;

That remains forever young.

Where the body fails to replicate the thoughts and motives of the soul;

The heart stampedes to illustrate the motion.

And that is the design of my life.

No matter my age, wisdom, or charisma or expectations of society;

I stand in the wake of 18 years with the jubilant soul of adventure.

The soul of courage.

Enthusiasm.

Kindness.

Concern.

Happiness.

& fatally, the thrill of the unknown.

Whereas, the adult grows weary and concerned with “what ifs”.

Thus, they forget to live.

Maybe futile and jejune is my design,

But this is why I write.

I write to remain puerile and chaste in my thoughts and intentions.

I write because this is the only motion of my youthful longevity.

Poetry; words: metaphor, illusion, homonym, motif.

Truly, but impeccably;

This is my motion to peace.