Added, to watch later!
some movie, the love you lost,
the bills you have to pay
the trip you always postponed
or just canceled!!!
and at the end of the road
fix it
fix it all
because is all that loneliness gave to you
They GO for a walk
The keepers of secrets have memories to imprison
such is their sad condition
Such it is the obligation of the sun , to be pale and weak, fanting behind the clouds
for the Ghosts…. When the Ghosts …
They have to get a ride
droplets are falling , a little bit careful…. A tribute
for them … because they are going for a walk
They are going to breath
and I….
I am here …. trying desperately to close the door and my only window
but the wind…. Ha!!! He had to appear….. Throw me violently to the ground and they came , dancing in my eyes
A whisper
A trembling voice to a devastated body
Listen up
Such is my sad condition
when they go to a walk …
When the prision is not enough
Writing
i was at the middle of one letter but suddenly all change and
I guess I wasted time not feeling anything for so long .
Words that once come from my feelings.. . And now it is so hard to write again.
Or else my life has become so comfortable and It forgot to Warn me .
Comfort and poetry do not exist together.
do not exist together!!!
forgot to warn me!
I’m not happy but I’m a poet and I’ve never seen a happy poet, either.
They are always fighting great inner battles. Some dying, others being unhappy in love. Especially in love.
It takes so much efforts to be happy that I gave up. I can be happy just writing to you or about you.
I think happiness exists but it is not the desire to have something.
But have someone!
She is a being that is given to you or not.
Drink her in small sips or write when she arrives and if have lips around, kiss them. Push them against you. Enjoy the feelings.
You can lie too. All becomes true later with the pen and paper in hands.
Push them, push them out of you!
A body helps a lot and if you have it one close to you, use it.
Write, above and below your love. On the soles of the feet, on the palms of the hands, on the thighs. Ah! The thighs. They are soft and respond more quickly to inspiration. Listen to your heart . Do not forget to breathe slowly and then deepen.
At the last minute, in the last drop of sweat. Then yes … your poem will be ready before she flews away.
That is my way to be a poet and to love
and
My loneliness of which my soul is made feasts.
And i write !
because
There is something terribly wrong when I do not write.
Penny dreadful
i supose i dont need you to be a man in flesh and blood
or I, a woman … in spirit
or being human or not….
You could be a beast
dreadful
horrible
your speech, the way you express yourself
is not
and you count on me
you count with the fierceness that i believe on you
that complete all gaps.. all holes inside you
when you are alone
if you are real… if you are a man…
But I…I am penny dreaful
and they talk and chant about me in the alleys
at the dawn
drunks …
sustained by the walls
and when they has fully exhausted all the bad options
they wait in a veiled dream
that redeem all of them
but not me…
I know….
Another night will come and
another sing they will chant
and
“Penny Dreadful that is what we want”
i’ll succumb to the charm of their voices and depraved calling
again….
So, i dont need you be a man in flesh and blood
perfect and charming
just hear you
because sometimes i need to be rescued
not by a penny , not by affliction
but by a poem
Lunar
And because i know that time always deceives us
that it is never perfect because time always fails with us
and, therefore, it is little, it is time, it is few
that our words do not complete us
our sight do not reach us
I to you, you to me
So… i am Lunar… I have to be
because i seek a pattern
i need … The soundness of your look
that lies within our absence
and that fills each one of us with nothing
And because you are Intention
You rule the seasons
sometimes warm me, sometimes you are my solitude….
the little, the few, the nothing you gave me
runs through the lunar cycle and back again to warm me up
and i love you for that
THE WISE MAN & THE CLEVER WOMAN
It comes from a yellow embroidered tent, from closed curtains.
a weightless scent of olive oil. That twirls and fills the air.
Inside … a man of the desert. Nomadic nature, wise heart .
He is so tall and impressive with his almond eyes,with his almond smell…
The people outside waits and wants for one part of him.
The wise man, is reluctant. He has afraid. He has died for it before and returned to improve the perfect dose …Not too much love, not too much apple…
Men dont accept high amounts of love .
The more he moves making his potion , more intoxicating he becomes. And the air around transformes itself in a irresistible scent.
He has to stop. He dont know but i know…
I am outside, with my potion in hands, that prevents me to attack him, so i am just watching how the people act. I feel the danger in the air.
He lives alone and in a thousand places to avoid people to follow him.
After all
He has the love potion .The power to cure the world.
i see men in ties, women in hysteria.
I heard cries and pleas.
and the wise man in gold appears
a sweet smile on his lips
and the immediate future
I foresse
some tears dropping on his face….
just sealing his fate
He released the scent of the love from his hand.
People started to act as crazy. They dont know who to love or who to desire….
who they will rip in pieces
He remains stand and knowing that he failed
“Men dont deserve high amounts of love”
I jumped to his side and said:
Not too much love, my love, not with too much love
and i released the scent of apple….
And the mob, maddened
remained at the middle of the way.
Undecided, hesitant.
And as quickly as possible. I took the bottle on his hand
impatient , as i am, I mixed the both and we inhaled the scent
and i shouted with joy
Now we are rich! we are rich!
And he did not understand until these days.
My Heart????
It is with a Blasé Air
cold and distant
that you must speaks to an empty heart
if you do not tells anything, no matter
if you goes by and not greets , he also did not notice you
if you not invited him to parties, he wont care less
You can be happy, be my guest
or unhappy in tears
you can be run over in front of …
or die in a newspaper headline
It is with a Blasé air
cold and distant
what you must wait of an empty heart
emptiness … because nothing is forever….
nothing does not exist, must does not persist
I exhale an old absence
and inhale deeply
and put a new one hole 
in place
I have to decide
if this heart is my or not….
