Chubby fingers

I type, I type, I point
The whole day
To tell the reality from my chair-of-view.
I point and judge what is unusual
And deserving a poke.
But my fingers are still chubby,
Maybe filled still with words and opinions,
With ambition and caresses.

Gloves for life

I handle my previous

With tight gloves of no value.

I shake hands I admire

With naked skin.

I grab hot stimulant liquids

With shaky fingers.

My chubby fingers lie crossed,

My mind flies high.

Communication evolution

I train my fingers
Tipping and spreading words
Each day.
Strong and powerful,
My fingers reflect my activities
Or my priorities.
Communication passes through the fingers,
words acquire value,
A few can still listen.

Fries ode

Tent and steaming,
Golden like the sun,
Fries condense joy of life and child-like behaviours.
Fingers are sticky,
oily stains on my dress,
And a bunch of fries
Like wedding bouquet
in my hands.

Critical thinking

Cross your fingers,
Glance at the stars,
Start with the right foot
To find luck when you are the only player.
Turn the situation
To the sunny side by
Standing strong on your sense of humour
And critical thinking.

Short fingers

I have only short fingers
To tell my story
And type passionately this night.
In this short distance,
All life condenses in drops of memories
And vapour of lost kisses.
Short words will be ideal
To write those heavy memories,
The persons that can only be remembered,
And the baby steps I climbed
And now behind my back.