Everybody is told they are beautiful
everybody is told they are loved
but do they believe it
or feel those beats on their drums

Must they be receptive
shields down awaiting the arrow
or do the words propel themselves
through the shell and to the soul

Onward we are carried
cradled in arms of inertia
only sweet and rare moments
stand to change our direction

But its the cruelest joke
the ease of their passing
meaning trapped in curvy caverns
of an over-occupied mind

So they glaze over us
unheard or misunderstood
as we trample paths on our way
to an imaginary delight

A unique occurrence
is the meeting of their goal
comprehension of their purpose
causing shift within one's soul

It is the saddest part, if you get my gist,
when moments like these go wasted or missed.