Hearts of Humans

Books narrows my mind I'd rather print my poems on rocks Leaves or trees, whatever I find My pen pinpoints my thought on paper With precision it is drawn from my heart My swelling bowl of tears And indecisions I rather just speak and let the wind collect my words Then I'd not worry about forgetting dreams Or things that I've heard of other worlds This book is built by only questions Of fragments of freedom and splinters of hope It has no answers no conclusions It's a broken window into the hearts of humans This book is built by only questions Of fragments of freedom and splinters of hope It has no answers no conclusions It's a broken window into the hearts of humans