Our poems are fabrics

knit with the dreams inside
laid out in the open
so may a passing eye
grant a glance

a pausing mind
decides for a fleeting moment
to wear

thinking them their own.

off the asphalt
five miles down south
she catches prawn

her skirt the catching net
feet quietly feather weight
she looks a muddy heron

beneath sky grayish pale
swimming wind with fishy smell
on her no man's patch

intent on her solo search
head bowed down cutely arch
she must have her catch

streaks of mud on her hair
only what she does care
a bunch of wriggling store

fire it up when day is dead
have the catch thinly spread
and nothing more

My heart ached for a piece of the cake
i tried to take the whole thing, that was a mistake
it's hard to just be patient and wait
when you crave what's beyond your fate

in dire straits i face what's on my plate
what a nightmare a dream can make
i sort it out and lay it all straight
when there's nothing to give, there's nothing to take

Nobody feels the same way,
Although we all feel sore,
With our unique cuts and bruises,
Scratching the cold surface, begging for an end.

Everyone's head is throbbing,
Overwhelmed by too little or too much,
Sailing a broken boat in their own troubled waters,
Searching for a pill customised to their inflictions.

One script a day keeps the evil away