White poinsettias and black dandelions

Because we scramble together like silk budding, spiral envelops and wilting poinsettias.

Because knowledge of truth masks itself in many layers of deception.

Because the television told us so.

Like the soft, chiseled layers of fresh cut wood.

Like the airplane seeking solace amongst the clouds.

Like the melting of butter and artificial flavors on top of the tongue.

So we play like miniature flutes and pianos, fighting for airtime.

So you think we are thus predictable,

little did you know our full capabilities.

For second guessing and doubting sources will get you shot.

And speaking about one's opinions will get you muted.

Vocal cord spewing around on the ground:

As soft as the dandelion tilts, 

As violet as the blood it spews.

For you are not so different than I.

Our journeys will one day mesh together.

Broadcasting never felt this good.

We pay in installments, and so should you.

-12FV