It is late and I have a date with the sunrise,
Lay down now, pillow soft, closing my eyes,
Oh, we will cross worm word paths and surprise!

Poems will spill from us, as we journey,
under sun or stars or on our aging knees,
Each day we share our joy or misery, equally.

Be kind to yourself, dust off your shelf,
that you have sat, like some sombre elf,
holding your passion inside the flesh itself.

Passionate embrace with the moment of inspiration,
****** with keys or pencil or ink that run with creation,
Go Poet! this is your age to write out your frustration.

Write about love, wield that one with care,
Write about life, encourage those to not despair,
Write with less, fewer words to say more is rare.

Broken,
I am consumed by the words in my head. With no canvas, no clean sheet to paint these expressions of emotions, that I carry so heavily in my heart.
The things I carry are worse than any man can handle, an average man would bend and break in half under this weight. Not me because I have lived these burdens and this weight is mine.
Like Atlas with the world on his back I have felt the burdens of my own heart, and these expectations of my family to be perfect. Although my friends look at me and know my failures but they can't lift this weight from my back.
Now I flex my muscles and I show my strength, in front of all these people who can never measure it or understand it. For my strength lies in a strong heart and soul. Where no one can measure the strength of my heart. My strength looks infinite but it is just the opposite.  it's the most fragile part of my life. Because with one goodbye, my world comes crashing down and the weight of these burdens are too much to bear. my heart and soul are crushed and I lay there under all my regrets. Until I can get back to my feet. And when that day comes, again, I will begin preparing myself to be broken."

In the jungle, green and lush,
a familiar cry breaks the hush,
A sound,
Of foot falls that trample dry leaves,
Low figures strutting amongst the trees.

Then a feral cat on the prowl, for a meal,
shadowed, perched looking for a life to steal,
listens, looks, waits without a sound,
closer...closer...measuring the distance in a bound.

And it had been so long since she had hunted,
had a good feed, at the memory she grunted,
the flurry of feathers and a beak, in her face,
caused
her to recoil, reeling backwards in disgrace.

The rooster stepped to where she had been,
perching crowed loudly and just looked mean,
A speckled hen emerged, from the shrubbery
                                            clucking with timidity,
the orphan cat skulked away in the humidity.

The rooster with white wings, black back, red comb topped head,
crowed loudly again, the rooster announced, their rights instead,
they would rather chase on foot and protect their hens,
as they are the wild chickens of Maui, without coops or pens!!