POCKET FULL OF STARS

You got a pocket full of stars in your eyes, and I got a notebook and pen in my hand. Call me old school, but I am still just this simple small-town kind of man, so let me write you this poem like I used to do when it was just me and you.

Your mama always said you don't fall in love with a traveling bible salesman; you said, mama, he doesn't sell any damn religion. He sells he has my love; once again, your mama said, baby, don't go marrying a man who works for the golden arches. You said, mama, he sure doesn't eat healthy; he is the farmer.

Times they are getting are complex; they are starting to taste like sugar-coated rain, and I'm going mad again, but you got those pockets full of stars in your eyes, and I got the pen and the paper in my hand trying to be a simple god-fearing man. Still, I'm no longer a poet but an artist painting this picture of our world together, ups and downs, with my words.