Reality slapping my face and my eyes piercing skyscrapers
I am on the trail of a bewilderment that gives way to dreams, and my secret presence, perhaps my pale smile hidden in my lines.
At night, I get a bruise report on my poems with a large print depiction of loneliness and aching joints.
If I have a rank: I am human.
I'm not offended, I've never been offended, I'm just in love and addicted to the sky dome with my blue cloak.
My words froze, like my hands, like my heart.
I managed to get through the day and finally it was night.
My eyes are nearsighted, but I choose the close ones well, mostly because of my heart's eye, the transparent souls that I see through, and where love changes arcs and I always seek justice.
One hand is emotions.
If it's a betrayal, I'm halfway through.
I am confused by the stampede and here I am writing my poems with epaulettes on my shoulder, finally overcoming my identity anxiety and challenging people's egos.
While loving and writing at lightning speed…
While holding the lightning that fell inside me with my delicate hands.
And that some people that I don't feel hurt or even mention my name.
The facts that hit me like a slap in the face, my eyes that pierce the skyscrapers, sometimes my shyness, sometimes my broken enthusiasm, and here I am improving my soul thanks to poems.
While my mind is stuck in the day, when I reach the night…
I prefer to overtake the night and focus on the next day, avoid the sultry words, and even if I get caught in a stable and serious discourse sometimes, I prefer to love and write, sometimes getting angry with my destiny and reaping life from what I wrote, sometimes I write notes on the road in front of me and praise my Lord to whom I hold on tight.
I became a child, then I cried, even the rain blamed me.
I promised, I promised.
The place where I buried my soul is still clear.
I miss the sun, then you
I wish I was a basil that settles for its shade.
Now, tacking was not enough for my dreams…
Get tangent to the rainbow in me.
I lay my life on my shoulders like a shawl I knitted for myself out of my sleeping feelings when I couldn't get enough, and I rub the facts with dreams at the bottom of a dream that I sometimes leak...
My dreams are endless.
Would I love it so quickly, when I had hoped for the love and every prayer that I breathed into me like a dried flower hidden in the seclusions and if I had no heart for the broken wheel?
The fires of dreams are the seasons: the immutable principle of frowning bondage, and the universe in a painful birth, the axis in which love prevails.
If the praising feelings are the rush of life, and here are the clashing hearts, the wind of love, sometimes the defeat of western words, the love that I knit with cross-stitch, embers syllables, the blind spot of the hearts.
Happiness is not difficult
Sadness and longing even if the budget is surplus
Not common words, but a catchy theme
Orphan temperament of climate poet
If the one who fakes love is the devil law enforcement, it's your life.
Destiny and war
No favors and justice
A round trip with paddle wheels
Sometimes stowaways succumb to the wind of love
Cold from a dilapidated house
Isn't it the adornment of servitude that you travel with patience?
Not currently recognized
Chain togetherness of gratitude with heart
to live without opening a hand to anyone
Nothing more comforting than to trust in God alone, nice poem. Write it down than stressing our mind over whats happening around us.