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I prefer the crazy ones,
those who laugh in the storm,
with their dreams as banners,
and their laughter a slow song.
The sensitive ones, those hearts
who cry in the starry nights,
green eyes that see in the shadows
the shades that the world flashes.
The naive, with their faith intact,
who believe in a better tomorrow,
weave utopias with threads of hope,
fearlessly face the pain.
I am left with the broken ones,
those who have known disappointment,
with scars that tell stories,
and a love they carry as a stranger.
Those wounded by love,
who still search for light in the mist,
with their chests open, though it hurts,
their hearts beat, they are feathers.