Finals.
They're not as bad as I make them out to be.
Teacher just wants to shake my mind,
have the deposited chunks of knowledge
bounce inside my brain and
dissolve into my thought juices
so I can taste the big picture.

The leisure of the clear mind
calls me like sirens.
Yet, I have not reached land thus far
and if I give in, I shall be devoured,
not by the sirens, but by myself.

Everybody writes about love.
That's probably a good thing.
We all know it's been said before,
felt before, screamed, sung and hummed before,
so what?
Life's been lived before.
Fruit bowls have been painted before.
Delicacies have been cooked before,
but none of them really taste as good
as the ones that melt on my tongue.

Es un gusto conocerte,
pero el verdadero placer
sera verte crecer.

fresh juice of ripe fruit
soothes the young tongue's
craving for cold victory

it slithers down the throat
'tis a a waterfall, a spring;
vision returns to foggy eyes,
deathening ears reawake;
satisfaction tastes so good:
it tastes of livelihood

It's raining
and I have to change my outfit.
This must be the world's way of telling me
that I can't predict and script tomorrow,
that, or that I should get a weather app.

Feel bad?
Write poetry.
Feel good?
Write poetry.
Can't write?
Don't. Go out and feel.