Poems are not toothpaste,
you cannot squeeze another from the tube at will,
bend the ends of words for one last drop,
inspiration comes in waves
and when it wants to do so, it will stop,
you cannot pick a constant crop,
there are times when the field lies fallow
hiding seeds which may or may not grow
if and when they flower
that is not for us to know,
poets feed on what they find
the harvest of a fertile mind

There's an ant on my window, it smelled something sweet
Has he ever faced heart break? Does she know about defeat?

There's an ant on my window, and he has many friends
Do you think that they're talking? Are they talking about me?

There's some ants on my window, and I'm watching them go,
Each of them together working in a synchronized flow

Is there anything more permanent ?
Is there anything more vain ?
For surely the word we call last
Will outlast all our attempts to change