Write, even when it feels
your fingers are
suffocating, buried beneath
impenetrable feelings.
Write, even when the
paper bleeds as
the wounds are exasperated
by each stroke.
Write, as if each word
is an antidote.
Write, as if forgiveness
is at the edge of
every page.
Write, until the hummingbird
be stills his wings
at the sight of the very
last flower.
Write, until the stars
have crystalized
and diamonds take their
place in the sky.
Write, so you
can see your soul
sculpted in
every letter.
Write.
Write.
Write.
Alma de Colibrí 