Here I am in my chamber  In my room full of words  Always searching for patterns that will give life to a line  My poetry is frozen though it's beginning to melt  The solid form is changing to the liquid of thoughts written down  Sentence after sentence in a language not mine  Loss of point no direction  A jigsaw where no pieces fit  I envy the writers and the poets who know the way to the places poetry grow  There is no harvest if you never sow  So I beg, steal and borrow wherever I go  If words were like music this would be a book  But this is not even worth the time that it took  Not even a novel just a self-pity tale written by someone that always will  fail  So very fragile inside  That's why I hide it in the empty phrases