As I sit under the Orange Tree,
a place where no one can see,
I think of the world's greater things.
Like life, love,
and the songs that birds sing.

Under the Orange Tree, I can be anything.
A knight, a prince, or even a king!
Under this tree, is my favorite place on earth.
Cause this a place, to me, of great worth.

Under the Orange Tree, I am truly home.
A place where my imagination can freely roam,
& no one can take my from this tree.
For this is my tree, and my tree is a part of me.

Never will I forget the times under the Orange Tree.
The ones where I felt like I could just be me.
And as I sit here, all year long,
I say, "sing again birdies, life is to short to hear just one song"

we hold on to dear life
to the thoughts we don't wan to lose.
we grasp on to our ideals
and our stubborn points of view.
we believe we are so deep
when all we see is superficial.
we feel as if we know ourselves
but is all we are, artificial?
we create who we are
from the fragments left behind.
from the thoughts of saints, prophets,
and holy men of all kind.
we forget that we are mortal,
only here for a little.
from birth we start to learn
to the time when we are brittle.
but of what we have learned,
how much do we know?
after all this time, we gained so much,
but did we really grow?
we focused on the differences
and that has left its scars.
but sometimes you need to **** the sun
in order to see the stars.
but do not fret my friends,
do not be perplexed!
because when we die,
and give all from inside,
we will always give life to the next.

- n.t.p.

the words on a page from which you read
relay that sense of melancholy
that facts are facts and that’s all they may be
until you follow one family.

evicted from their home and all they know.
thrown into the ring for Nazis to show.
and all this time, the whole world will grow
while on the inside, dead bodies is all they throw

into the holes where they’re laid to rest.
children and women who gave it their best
to save their families from the unrest,
from the flames those dead bodies would later invest.

we always say to walk a mile
in the shoes of others so that we can compile
a list from our minds which becomes hostile
and our souls become so full of revile

that sympathy isn't a word to express
the games they played - survivors chess -
to keep them alive as death will caress
the souls with which the reaper will address,

“pack your bags and say adieu
to this world which was all you knew.”
embrace those emotions of the person you pursue
for these are things no mere facts can tell you.

- n, t. p.

Who am I?
What am I?
Why am I?
How do I think the way I do?
Where am I going?
When is my time?
To go?
Is there anything?
For me?
To see? I doubt it.
Am I alive?
Or atleast awake?
Is this a dream?
If so, a nightmare
full of sweet tales and sorrowful riddles.
One full of questions that may never be answered,
and one full of answers that may never be questioned.
Who I am, is an answer
that takes a lifetime to figure out.
What I am, is an answer,
that binds and seperates us.
Why I am, is an answer,
that can be best explained by those who make us who we are.
I think the way I do because,
I am.
I am going, somewhere;
or am I here?
My time is now...
to go?
soon. too soon
Everything to see,
all for me.
To share,
and to give.
I live my life,
and walk with her
in both dreams.
Because I am reality,
and reality is asleep.

Is there anything that truly lives forever?
Is it love, happiness, wisdom?
Life & peace?
No sir, not even these.
We all must accept,
that to which has a beginning
must have an end.
For love can not spring,
until we experience hate.
Happiness can not flourish,
unless someone knows sorrow.
Wisdom cannot be attained,
untill one has seen his own mistakes.
Life can not exist,
withought a birth from a mother.
And peace can not manifest itself,
until one experiences war.
So to must everything have a beginning
and an end.
But with what may die,
ought to give life to the next.

the hearts of the poets
are not made of gold
but of ink
that flows out of the pen
onto the paper for which
they expresses their souls
from the deepest recesses.
for the poet's works come
from within.
now...
write!

-n.s.

Beyond the stars and stormy nights.
A young boy's mind is about to take flight.
Away from the troubles of today's past.
This boy's mind is free at last.
-n.s.