Unfinished is the business,
Of one distracted enough to sidetrack.
And unfinished becomes endeavors attempted,
When one listens to hear...
...
If it was not for poetry,
Would 'thou' be left to live with less art?
Would the meaning and significance,
Of forget-me-nots...
...
Who can forget,
That which for them had existed.
To honestly admit,
They have no recollection.
...
If it appears as is to be witnessed,
When was it decided not to be wanted?
Yet given permission to exist.
And how long had it been observed,
...
Too many have approved,
The doing of their snooping...
In the backyards of others.
With this done to later discover,
...
There is nothing more that can be said,
Today...
To or about those who stand in the way,
With a doing to prevent or purposely delay...
...
No matter how fresh,
Something new introduced...
Gets to feel with it to get,
Keeping it real from Sunrise to Sunset...
...
The choice had been yours,
To ignore what is.
With the thought someone else,
Would come to rid...
...
A budding of those young done,
Comes...
As if time creeps.
Many wish to see their 'buds',
...
One never knows...
When love to them arrives to show.
And,
One never knows...
...