Betrayal of the working mom

I have worked through pregnancy
when my fist wouldn't clench,
when the nights were left unheld
and breathing was a torment.

I did so because I loved my job,
my colleagues and my boss.
Responsibilities fueled me
with intrinsic need to weather.

Safeguarding our health
I was set to rest prematurely,
fortunately able to insure
the most urgent affairs closure.

Haunting the house aimlessly,
anticipation consuming my energy
the day came glorying my pain
and handed was a world with a ribbon.

My baby, my joy and my focus alone,
for the months to come
was a gift, a miracle
and a brilliant leach of life.

She had my undivided attention
for as long as I could master,
but life caught up with us,
my body barely mine and brain drained.

Eager to resume my functions
got a review from my sympathetic employee,
surprised that I was not my dynamic
and cunning self while making life.

Burst the amazing illusion
of being professionally cherished,
the drive to hand my precious
to another's arms for my job hanged.

Dear Santa, please save Christmas

Dear Santa,
it has been far too long,
not that I didn't want,
I've been belief vacant.

This Christmas I need of you
I fear that we all do, to
save it with a miracle!

My wish is,
as I light this candle,
lightning the feather,
to write you this letter...

"For the word carefully meant
to find its dirt path unbent
straight as only an arrow."

Let the snow,
wash down the raw red stain
of shards between blood
as we join hands for a meal.

Let the lights,
flickering from pine trees
brighten the colors
in our reserved deep eyes.

Let the choir,
guide the tortuous paths
in each others brains
that lead to steep crater.

Let the turkey,
in herbs and juices for days,
carved into silver trays,
sing of our belonging.

Let the crackle,
fire up our sleepy beat
that burned in within
on every other year.

This Christmas, white beard Santa,
heal this countries family
and bring a kind sight our way.

I'm quantic

An undefined ever evolving

combination of possibilities, 

defined by a potential in all

the thinkable parameters. 

I'm a daughter, a mother, 

I'm a lover, a fighter

shower opera singer,

a myope finger painter, 

dyslexic of a writer, 

and so much more tomorrow. 

But when you measure me

then I cease to exist

become but the number

you collect into stats.

(Inspired on "Bitch" from Meredith Brooks)