All I have is a homemade love.
It’s not designed in Paris
or manufactured in Shanghai.
It’s not shaped and shined.
It doesn’t toe the line
or roll on command.
My love holds your hand
when the world is hard and cold
and there’s no one to be found.
It takes the hits
and grants the wish
harbored in the shy heart.
Its crown is lost, lying in an uncharted wood,
caked in frost.
My love was forged in tiny rooms
and on the broken pavements
of unsafe streets.
It’s been beaten and tonged
struck like a gong
survived on fumes
sacrificed for the greater good
yet forges on, risking all,
ready to take whatever fall
you need me to take
to save your aching soul.