All skin

Is made up of the same cells,

All eyes

Reflect the same stars,

All lips

Dance around the same meaning,

And even if they don’t work,

All hearts

Are connected by the same strings;

To love someone

Is to hand them your heart,

Engraved with scars,

Dripping with roots

Drenched in buds

Thrumming with the pulse

Poetry has a silent power 

In the way that poets 

don’t need words to communicate 

With one another; 

We simply see a wildflower