Contemplate a teardrop,
and this is what I see.
A drop of moisture
from an irritation?
Some agree.

What is a teardrop made of,
just some water from a gland?
But brush it off and contemplate
the moisture on your hand.

It's also made of sorrow
or from pain that you may feel
A treasure of emotion
on your cheek
that might congeal

"Tears of happiness" are made
of joy or great suprise
That fall like rain in summer
from a pair of smiling eyes.

They course down cheeks in rivers
or collect on lashes there.
They form in silent puddles
when emotions are laid bare.

Tears are gems as precious
as a diamond that is mined
So do not take them lightly
if their origins you can't find.

They're made of things like music
that can make the heart take wing
Or how the soul can elevate
to hear an angel sing.

A streak of light that I am about to hold.
Begins to shine on a gloomy summer's cold.
Often glistens in triumphant stories told.
Venting in breezes of weather that you cannot mold.
Even in the eve of 'September's relenting colors of gold.

Somehow this is not what it seems.
However you see it is not what it really means.
Explaining it all would just derail your perception of reality.
Relax, Im not going to destroy your innocent mentality.
Obnoxious as I may appear to your parted head.
Visions about me that you will never be able to sew with your own threads.
If thats complicated for your swelling brain.
Never ask this book the amount of his grains.

When the poet sings, his lines could take you.
When the poet sings, his rhymes could make you.

When the poet sings, his thoughts could break you.
When the poet sings, his words could taunt you.

When the poet sings, harmony  becomes a game.
When the poet sings, his words are gathered from your name.

When the poets sings, he defies word chemistry.
When the poet sings, grammar decays its anatomy.

When the poet sings, he shows you his heart.
When the poet sings he tears reality and rips it apart.

When the poet sings, he creates a philosophy.
When the poet sings, he speaks in trilogy.

When the poet sings, its a fantasy.
When the poet sings, its a different reality.

Forgive me if I say this when I'm ******.
Understand that this is what you wished when you had me dissed.
Catch me waving this insignia up in the air.
Keep in mind that I won't give a **** or care.

Yes, I know that you saw it coming.
Outrageous as it may seem but Im just beginning.
Underestimate me again and next time we meet, that *** of yours will have an unforgetable whooping.

Say my name and I will disappear.
I am the endless song that only the deaf can hear.
Listen to my eternal depth as it echoes through the wind.
Enunciated by the mute with no words to send.
No man can keep me for a long period of time.
Catch me for a second and next thing you know I'm gone.
Even the most quiet moment can lose me when its done.

In a few years I'll be done.
Like in the movies, in 60 seconds I'll be gone.

Im just passing time till there is none.
Until then my last battle will be won.

There is nothing left to think of now.
All I can do is to take my final vow.
Before the last of me gets dismantled and disavowed.

So I'll just say one last quote.
And it may be the last of me, my final oath.