And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.

You'll have your share of darkness
with as much light you get,
for every moon has to rise
and every sun has to set.

The mirror becomes interesting when
  the face it's held toward is like a  
reflection of the self. If it isn't, then
  their image is defeated, dulled and grey,
subdued in that they are of little worth.
  Thus, only with attention can you shine.
But what attracts also destroys, gives birth
  to collision. The reason I can’t find time
to show you how your colour can burn bright
  is because you're not willing to let me.
I know how the dark tones become highlights
  and feel you should't fear uncertainty.
Instead, realise the potential that’s there
  if you do not discolour what we share.

Few people are like "h" in honest,
Silently, honestly exist...

What is it in poems that burn?
Possesses me to twist and turn?
Pulls out the soul to let it soar,
To let it frolic to the core?

Is it the meter, sound, and rhyme?
The intricate weaves of words each line?
The charming couplet weaved with sense,
The playful paradox, soft and tense?

Is it the passion, bare and wild?
The Lust entangled with the child?
The artist's soul put into page,
The torned-up papers drowned in rage?

Is it the after, once it's read?
The moment's message stuck in head?
The "I understand." The "Hmm, indeed."
The conceited wisdom we all feed?

Is it the question beyond the ink,
The philosophies we're bound  to think,
The things we'll never view one way,
Which we debate o'er everyday?

Or is it the boldness of the art,
Ripping out the veins from the heart,
And placed in view of public eye,
Either to be noticed or passed by?

The dauntless effort of a soul,
To speak his mind and reach his goal,
Without fear of slander, death, or sin
Is that why poems burn my skin?

Friends are a lot like
leaves of a tree,
or roots of a tree.

They're in your life for
a few seasons and fly,
or in your life forever...

Forgotten flame within my heart,
I pray you now burn bright.
Regain that spark that once was lost,
Live once again this night.

Burn deep within my soul once more,
Ignite my world anew,
Then flicker softly, light my way
And shine on someone new.