There is something inside of a man

it is his essence

a sense of himself.

It can be taken away

and it frequently is,

but he keeps searching for it

because he longs to get it back.

It is the substance that looks on misery and sees happiness.

It sings to him in pain.

It offers power in dark moments

when the things of the world dissert him.

It is usually found then.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Sometimes you find it in others

they have a sense of style,

frequently overlooked

It’s overlooked because it takes style to recognize it.

This thing can’t be bought and it doesn’t obey pleas of permission.

When found,

 it walks inside,

unasked.