Scraps

It's the
Picture frames and scrapbooks
And the taped photographs on painted walls
And the ones pinned on still cork boards
And those behind the magnets that never fall. 
To the physical treasures that I feel with frail fingers
To the pixel bits that torment as eye candy

But be it
Through the ink creating scraps of our lives
Or the light showcasing itself into my pitiful mind
Memories are still the only reason as to why I cry.