Love to the young is like a religion,
That there is no belief better,
That there is no one better,
Than their cute little friend.
Scrawling each other’s names
Along the soles of each others’ feet,
Then proudly jumping into the air
With pride for all the love,
Just like a cross proudly dangling
From the base of the neck.
Spinning in circles,
Screaming little hymns
At the top of their underdeveloped little lungs,
Only for a chance to get to hold the others’ hand,
And be able to brag,
This belief, this is mine.
Whispering to all the other
Little boys and girls only about the other,
Just how “pwetty” or “handswome” they are,
As if it is your sole purpose in their lives,
To be jealous that they have someone filling
That void in their heart
To guide them in the right direction.
Love is a sort of beauty for the young,
To let them believe
That this is truly their religion,
Until one day they realize
That you don’t need love to be happy,
Just the belief that there is something