Small Words

Dusting off the old yearbook, a forgotten thing.

Mark's name, scrawled, a careful hand.

Beneath his photo, something like a sting

of truth, across the faded land.

'Don't let them make you small,' he wrote.

And a sun, a childish, simple sun.

Just ink, a barely legible note,

when everything else felt undone.

It sat there, quiet, in the book,

for years, a paper-thin defense.

I'd turn to it, just one quick look,

a simple plea, with no pretense.

And something shifted, just a bit.

Those words, they weren't a grand decree.

Just paper, ink, and where they'd sit,

they made a difference, just for me.