We are the pollen of
    Of our fathers.

And the blossom
       Of our mother's


Our petals flourish
        For we are the


Flower of unity
      Given life.

I have wrote till the pencil
  is nothing more than splinters
              needed to be pulled from my mind.

But still I reflect my emotions
                        on blank spaces.
Nothing is visual, but is spoken
                                 on the paper.

I cant reflect on my words
                 even though
                      everyone is filled with tears.
Never wiping them away,
but filling each one
      with syllables descending tearfully.

I have never let another read a word
             that's blotched on satin white,
contaminating its moment with the
         silent verses that'll never be read.

My words are silent, I'm the lonely poet,
             who's verses are not even read
                                             by yours truly.
         there just moments blind on paper.

She is the girl that speaks
             upon  no ventures.
She only gazes with the sorrows
                            that graze your heart..

Feeding her own discontent.
                     And when she seeds the shallow fields
of your mind.

Only her reflections grow
             showing you the seeds
of not your sorrow
but the flowers of jealousy
                           blooming deep within her.

When we venture on another,
we never see the clothing
       but the skin upon which we
                          where born upon..

For all truths are sewn upon us
                          on the birth of our innocence.

One truth is that beyond the first moments.


    We are the creation of two hearts
that conjoined to make a melody of life,
            and we where its symphony.


A musical of string and rhyme,

   Flowing with the future
                        of our parents twine.
Interconnected to make us who we are today
                                                    and tomorrow..

Where there memory of all tomorrows,
                collected upon our  memories
                                                  of todays.

If a light is turned
on but  
         never shine,s
into the opposing room.

Was it ever switched
                        on at all.


Or was the conclusion
         That there
was no
         bulb.


Because if  the light didn't
    aluminate beyond
         its surroundings.

Was there ever a light
      In the first place.

If time is consious
      Are we
but a fleeting
          Thought.

Yet to fade into obscurity.

Or are we a
           conclusion
Of repeated ideas,
That just need
         to be tweaked.

The past is
               the future
Unwoven in concisnece.

For we are but a
           pebble in
A pond of ripples.

Though we do not
      make a splash.


       Beneath,

we disturb


       The flow.