Know meHow long do you know me? For your surprising words it seems you desvended me way more that I wantedKnow me
In metaphoric words in twisted lines all my thoughts you described and never they seemed so real to me
Was it my eyes? My betraying cheeks? Through my unsaid words? How did you see me?
Through all this mess of colours and lights Noises You did it... reached me
Let´s go to the place where all ideas coexist all heart beats our glowing eyes will see only each other
Mrs_Mr SoulNothing I am not, I only exist I fit myself and get dressed With eyes, mouth and noseMrs_Mr Soul
I roll over and feel modify and make tears in someone else´s eyes a smile in other lips
I fit myself in arms Translate my whole substance into words Create attitudes and, many times Modify my own end
Time goes by and,
more and more I look just the way that conformity
expects from me
The body fade into dust and me, perfect now ready, return to where i once had left
If I Could Be...If I could be one of those leaves in that beautiful tree would you be the rain that falls from the sky showing me heaven?If I Could Be...
If I could be your shoulder would I have enough strenght to bare the weight of your strong thoughts?
If I could be a beautiful and touching paiting will my colors break into you making me reacheable?
I'm myself, but I could be everything I could be you If I were you would you love me?
Giverny BridgeI want a bark in GivernyGiverny Bridge
A life in Giverny
To see the waterlilies by Monet
Enjoy the enchantment
And the art
To feel completely
The amplitude
Of the sensation
Of the moment that we feel
Never more to come back
A bark in Giverny
To cross the Japanese bridge
And underneath it
To change love oaths
With the nature
To look at the pretty trees
and with them to exchange desires
They of walking
I to remain
And in Giverny to die
In Giverny
So far from me
Why to want in suc
The Mighty PenThe act of writing, the physical act of putting words on a piece of paper, to be scrutinized and rearranged, enjoyed and despised, revered by millions or tossed away, it is brutal work. The act of writing is a self-serving solo sport. It exists for itself, alone, singular, which is how the writer exists, in one mind, in one focus. It is lonely work. It sits in corners waiting, waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting passer-by, who has too much time to think, who makes the mistake of opening her mind, of allowing "floods of images" tThe Mighty Pen
LostYou've looked in places where the floor has worn down to a curve; Where transparent feet, like yours, and like hers, can still be heard; And through the purple greys of traffic home, and family meals, You've wandered down the centre of the road, the other way, And groped through heavy smog to find her, But she's not there today.Lost
You rang through the phone book, through both her names, and all she knew. Even her frosted father claimed that she was still with you. And all nights, after days of walking, you will not just rest: Your face at every window, on the hour, in the black
LullabyGiants sleep under these hills, With quilts of grass, and bedbug trees; Their hairy fists round ends of roads, By warren doors, with Oak-root keys.Lullaby
Dragons hide within those caves, In sooty scales that look like stone, And when a patch feels much less damp, Or scalding hot, you hear them groan.
Weed women lurk in your lakes: All knotted hair, and twirl-word skin Tattooed down deep, with sharpened bones From chub-faced children that dive in.
Withered men live in their woods. They wind-whistle their tiny screams, And twist out splinter-finge
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