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Poem
I write. I feel. I translate. I create.
Any writers dream is to breathe life into their abstract of imagination
as is any artistic creator.
To give birth to a painting, or to capture that moment in infinite majesty.
To recreate feelings of all kind, throughout lyrics and hymns.
To give to of a creation of all kinds for all kind.

These expressions. These collaborations. These leaks from creativity.
Dawn was a long time ago that even our ancestors painted on walls.
We observe in fascination, shared ingenuity from eon's lost.
Yet as our children write, the tail spurns on,
Becoming endless dull twine, study yet bland.
Recreate that fathomless spark, children of children.
Recreate us, capture your own moment yet.

We write. We feel. We translate. We create. You carry on.
Pass down our tattered wreaths,
Weave a new song with our rekindled lace of your own nights.
Dance around one another, raise a flag, sing a song.
Touch a place of no return, enclose it with love.
Pass on our knowledge of our minds onto ageless stone.
Pass on even our stupidity, learn from our tales of misguidance.

Lay out foundation upon our syllables.
Play with verbs and new pronunciations as you mix paints.
Diverse amongst yourselves, go on for more.
Find strife as to stride for peace.
Do not abate one another on simple matters such as belief.
Draw out your own life, be in harmony as a mosaic of colors.

Unique and different, give out your wisdom's.
Then fall, become as us, dull silk.
Give yourself to brink, as so your children strife.
When they look upon you and cry in anger tell of us.
Our stupid advice.
So they can achieve greater than you through their children.
More so than us.

Sing of this day, sing any moment.
You should, shall not be bound by others.
Paint in mind of further on.
Let me be the ancestor of those who forsake this poem.
Stop strife and stride forever.
Let them achieve dreams of dreams.
Through word and solace, song and chaos.

Let them fly away, and never stop.
Run away,
Don't look back.
Touch all the diamonds above.
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