Onto the spinner we throw our selves down to mold.
A gray soft canvas of reliance, to shape ourselves into the beautiful piece we will become.
As we spin, and mold, to become greatness we sow.
We come off the spinner, soft, and cold.
In the image we want, to the thing we will be.
To dry, to harden, we burn in the kiln, we are fired.
We are heated, to the highest of degree, enduring the greatest test of all.
Then comes the glaze, no matter what color we are, no matter what mold, or what vase.
We are all human, all created equal. Molded, thought over, considered with beautiful thought, maybe even a little evil.
We're all beautiful in all of our ways, but we all start from square one.
Clay.

As days pass, as nights fly, i gaze up into the coolest of nights sky.
Gaze upon stars, gaze upon planets.
But, wonder. clouds my mind in this life, i enhabit.

What will i do with it? who will i love in it?
What is the purpose?

We all wonder the same thing at some point in this beautiful thing called life.
So why not enjoy it, as time. Determines your essense at this point in time.

Sometimes we fall
More than likely to find a better place
Falling is like drifting to a wonderful place
Not necessarily to the best of liking for the adrenaline you feel at the start.

But where the end takes you
On the long, slow felt journey
Sometimes to the ground falling as hard as can be.
Or the feeling, as falling on the wavy soft flowing sea

We all fall every once in a while, so why not fall
To a better place to where acceptance is inevitable
We all enjoy standing, but tripping. Is natural

So fall with me, almost a thousand miles
Where the enjoyment is rough but the outcome is pure and sweet
We all love the end, no matter how rough, or how steep

Off popped a flare on the day of gathering
A silence passed each and every one of the sad, proud, and hard faces before me
Honoring those out at war
Honoring those serving at home

Off popped the flare that signified hope
The flare that signified life
A flame to stay live in and out of water
And as it burned in hand, illuminating ones face

A hush.
A silence.
A standstil.

For those. That have the permanent scars. That we call

War.

A poem can mean a thousand things.
A poem can speak a thousand words.
A poem can have depth
A poem can contain something one in a million can see

We all have encouragement, motivation, even ideas to write the excerpt that fills our pages.
To keep us entertained, to keep us thinking, even more so loathing.

A poem can lead us down a path of gold.
Shimmering, solid, happy, wealthy.
Or a poem can lead us down a dark alley
Shivering, scary, helpess, wondering

A poem takes power and meaning to write. And everyone, has the power, even the meaning when not knowing

Take care, of the creative minds we have.
Have ideas that spring. And blossom with vibrance and beauty, then take it to the page, for watering and pruning.
We all are poets, you, her and i
And when you find a poem to rhyme, to speak, to feel, not to disservice with reading.

Remember that inspiration was there, and lives on to this day. This day of gold, or this day of gray.

Humans
Libraries of living knowledge
Flowing, burning, refreshing.

Even the youngest, have the biggest stories to share
Even the oldest, have the smallest stories to tell

We pull knowledge, from all enviroments
At an uneasy unrest.
From the busy streets
From the dangerous nights
Even from the books, right by the candle light

As we live on, as we grow wise, as we pick up things that we will use all our life

Remember to share. To speak, to mean.
Remember to be happy, through thick, even through thin
Our voices, will live, through years and through ages.
Just remember, tread carefully in yours. Or you might pull something, that might stretch from shore upon shore.