Tuesday, March 24

Nobody Can Be A Wannabe Like Me


 Nobody Can Be A Wannabe Like Me

Nobody can wannabe as much as me
I only use words to be famous you see.
Why does everyone else have to write so well
I'm better than them all-can't you tell?

Nobody can wannabe as much as me.
I meet bad news about other writer's with glee
if they need my help I steer them the wrong way
and when they fail I have a very happy day.

Nobody can wannabe as much as me.
Everyday I pluck wounds from the jealousy tree
I read and I write and the talent is there
but in the end my work sits and nobody cares.

Nobody can wannabe as much as me.
I want to sell my words and charge a big fee
I want my book to stay at number one
so that I can have it all and they have none. 

Nobody can be a wannabe like me.
If you get in my way I rue your destiny.
Ignore my work but you can't win
for I will always undertake the bigger sin.

Rebecca Del Sanchez © 2015

This felt good to write although it's written with a smile. The River © is my work.

Sunday, March 22

The Three In The Tree


The Three In The Tree

My favorite place to be
when everything is green
down by the twisted oak
to dream of things unseen.

The trunk it holds a tale
as it were passed to me
'bout lovers that were caught
with a witch, inside this tree.

Their wedding had been set
in Fairyland by the sea
but when the witch showed up
they had to disagree.

The witches spell was swift
the faeries they fought back!
The lovers in the middle
aware of what they lacked.

These faeries weren't so sweet
now trapped inside the tree
both man and witch it seems
became the unlucky three.

Rebecca Del Sanchez © 2015

Wednesday, March 18

The Old House

The Old House

The old house was old
older than it could remember
the souls who built it
long gone.
The smell of mildew 
and the roof half caved in
the children's toys left behind
and everything there as they had left it.
The house dearly missed them
groaning as the wood wet with many rains 
expanded painfully.
It was almost over
the old house thought.
There were footsteps sounding on the porch
as a fawn and it's mother entered finding shelter.
The old house had found a new purpose
and finally settled for it.

Rebecca Del Sanchez (c) 2015

Sunday, March 15

The Town Of Yore


The Town Of  Yore

Brown brick buildings
lining the lane between
the path overbear
by feet too many to count.

It's gloaming time
the walkways forlorn
encompassing the town
empty but for a toss-pot.

The town of yore waits
for dark to hearken it's history
echo's of remembrance lurking in stone.
If only we could hear them.

Rebecca Del Sanchez © 2015