Call that the Soul, pt. 1
Inside the eyes of the one you love the most;
the craft turned to style from hours, I'll give a toast.
To what can't be seen but drives the hands of artists,
from newly started or departed.
Newlyweds the first night,
a mother's child seeing stars for the first time.
The calm that settles through every brushstroke,
and that nostalgia of fresh rain on concrete
on your home street.
Whistling Robin Hood, having it memorized off the TV.
I call that the soul.
Head rocking with no
music, bopping along;
fingers tapping a song,
singing into a spatula
like a microphone.
Not even hitting the right notes,
but it feels alright;
seelf taught, fixing your bike,
Grease on spokes, knees hit the curb.
But you've had worse,
or so your friends have been told.
First girl who's hand you'd hold,
after, feeling 95 years old.
Grandma's home cooked ribs filling your nose,
feeling of love in your heart for those
who feel the same kinda way.
Both you and they know
and you kinda choke up.
Well I call that the soul.