few tile

you cannot fix
what is irrevocably broken
any effort you make
would be perceived as a
token

the illness nibbled
as it lunged at her creativity
trying to take with it
all artistic proclivity

as rain drops fall
the wind is blowing
trees bend down
as they are knowing
she sits at her desk
trying to write
not so easy
she was awake all night
thoughts were racing
in every direction
clouded, muddy
introspection
no resolutions
nor epiphanies
just the usual question
why is it always me?

the sisters of poetry

some of us like to read
others like to create
some grab the lead
while others leave it to fate
we all join our hands
in exploring our souls
life makes such demands
why is it so hard to stay whole?

stub born

when "grown ups" have a problem
they cannot/will not fix
little children get caught up
in the mix
adults live with all their stubborness
but the children get hurt
inside this mess

the early bird catches the worm

and if the worm turns out to be a snake
that's okay maybe the bird's a fake

no te turbas

Do not worry about whatever past life he occasionally lives in.
You have your own dark corner he can never visit.