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
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