Every **** too wants to tell it's story to us loud,
my eyes trained to span galaxies light years away
weren't good seeing the flowers,on weeds for long,
then an unexplained  lightening connecting all cells,
flashes within, I turn back and see things in a new light,
those blue and yellow flowers kept hidden by an invisible
blind,smile with a joy and it brings anew a  vision of beauty.

A flower is a flower, even if offered by a humble ****,
like the words I heard spoken from a sleepwalker's lips,
with a less emphatic tone smeared with dusts of dreams
still I hear it's heart beat, a cadence so exhilarating.

Every rice plant in the field, drooping in the heaviness
of ripened grains, is muted, the wind that caresses both
are equally cool,benign; every **** wishes to explain,
so I won't miss their music, even by some chance did misshapen.

You, the sculptor,
shaped our lives, molded
us, your offsprings, into the model
of your desired likeness.
You created masterpieces
with the elder and younger;
they so like the perfect David,
but you are no Michelangelo,
and i, the nucleus of this family,
am not a piece of clay.
i defy your wheel, knife,
the kiln that fires your bloodline.
i take to the kiln my own David,
misshappen like a Picasso,
surreal to you.

You and me, we're half-formed.
A caterpillar in a cocoon, stunted.
It tries for years to chew its way out,
only to find its wings misshappen.
Before it falls, too far.
A fatal flaw.

I can't see your hair and the television
at the same time.
One or the other is always
static.