Not Giving Up Yet
Every inning matters
Did anyone ever say enough poems? Enough expression?
I’ve written quite a hundred poems and still,
feel hungry every time I go through a breakdown,
wanting to express what’s inside me
breaking me into charcoal pieces, not
turning into diamonds.
Every day that doesn’t bring me light
pushes me into a room full of emptiness,
and furniture that I cannot break because
the only way to survive is to value
all the privileges I have.
Each time the fulcrum of life breaks a little
I go down on the see-saw and hang there,
like a child waiting for his turn to touch the
skies but the balance breaks, I am not hurt
but my expectations are.
I am not sure why giving happiness gives back,
only a moment of joy to me and I am back,
yet again to the table where the lamp is
flickering to its death, asking me to
open a random page of a book of quotes
and define my own destiny.
