Here I am in my chamber

In my room full of words

Always searching for patterns that will give life to a line

My poetry is frozen though it's beginning to melt

The solid form is changing to the liquid of thoughts written down

Sentence after sentence in a language not mine

Loss of point no direction

A jigsaw where no pieces fit

I envy the writers and the poets who know the way to the places poetry grow

There is no harvest if you never sow

So I beg, steal and borrow wherever I go

If words were like music this would be a book

But this is not even worth the time that it took

Not even a novel just a self-pity tale written by someone that always will

fail

So very fragile inside

That's why I hide it in the empty phrases