Handprints I left on the window of the homemade bread factory
When I was thirteen years of age.
That was my time of adolescent memory,mixed with moral decay.
My father had left me, mother was sold out to ***, pills, and her grave.
I was a fiber bug to the world of technology,
Just trying to escape.
The homemade bread factory was Nana's. My daddy's mother.
Me and Nana cooked real Mexicali dishes, made butterfly catches, and dream catchers to go with my teen wishes.
Nana's house was the bread factory.
The factory no longer up and runs.
How I miss Nana, her cooking, her being momma and daddy both.
I miss Nana's love the most,
How our Nana's can be daddy and mother at the same time.
Gods gift to any grandbaby.
Rest
Peacefully sweet Nana
R.I.p
Maria boudega conshito.

god made stars
for starving poets

when they look up
they forget
how hungry they are

    ~mce

If flowers that dropped from trees could remain fresh and the exact color they dropped as,we wouldn't call them dirt.
We would call them "beautiful things that form a beautiful natural colorful carpet" and even wait for the season that they would fall again and again without ever ceasing to do so.
They're still beautiful
^_^

The sky gifts the ocean raindrop kisses, embraces it with shimmering sunlight upon its ripples.
The ocean returns its love
with affectionate reflections
assuring the sky of where its heart is.