He's beautiful, I have already mentioned this to him
but I keep on insisting because I think it's not really clear for him yet
that his beauty is both inside and outside
I mean, apart from his noble heart
and niceness befitting of a prince;
apart from his ideas and his way of thinking, his strings of thoughs
that I love to follow and where I also love getting lost in;
apart from the beauty of his likes and loves
(because you are what you love, if after all love transforms you,
and thus I am he and he is I)
even if you took apart all of his being and essence
he would still be beautiful
because he is beautiful, no matter how you see him
although he sees himself and he is not content
he is beautiful in his signature brows
in his shoulders where I anchor and his fingers which I entwine with mine
he is beautiful from the wrinkles in his face and his combed hair
to his feet, wearing shoes two sizes bigger
he is beautiful, no matter how you see him
but he is on his most when he is honest,
when he shows himself weak: in his most pure and human state,
and that usually happens at night,
either with his mind a little blurred by a little alcohol
while his tongue runs and can't say anything but urgent truths,
dyed with that love that not even alcohol can erase;
either in my arms, moved by sweet whispers, his eyes releasing tears
that rise modestly like cotton
but, as they roll, have the shine of a gemstone;
or if not by early morning while we share a single bed,
naked and iluminated by the lights of my alarm clock
he is so beautiful when he lets you see him vulnerable
or he lets you see him in love
or he lets you see him without even noticing that you're seeing him:
he is so beautiful all the time
and he is not content
he tells me he is not content, when his arms hold me tight
and his chest seems sculped exclusively for my hands;
he is not content, my best kept secret,
the boy that looks cute and shy in front of everybody's eyes
and I know in so many different layers;
he is not content being so short and so pale
being that I could use the porcelain analogy to describe his skin,
but his porcelain was adorned with freckles, and marks, and moles
and I have never seen such fine, pretty, warm porcelain
(porcelain is cold and your arms are always warm)
and his dark hair contrasts with his light skin, and his eyes go along:
black lights, stars of Bethlehem that guide the way
to reach to his pink lips that, if you kiss,
you could swear you can find salvation
or a miracle; something strange happens because it's not normal to be moved by such great happiness,
and if his mouth is salvation, the touch of his hands is holy grace
he is not content when I could honor his body
and his spirit and mind,
when my mouth could paint masterpieces in his chest
because he doesn't see shape but I see colours
and I don't know if he believes if god is an artist
but if he doesn't see himself as art, it doesnt matter
since even so, art goes all over himself like a bindweed
since even so, when god said
"let there be light"
I'm almost sure that he was made.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
We wanted to be big girls since we were little ones
we used mom's lipstick
and pretended we were mature and pretty enough
to have red, bright lips
and shiny, size six golden shoes
mum used to tell me I was pretty
and she let me use her lipstick
but I didn't really like it
so I rushed to the backyard
I tangled wild flowers in my hair
usually mixed with dandelions
and mint leaves
sometimes a couple of ladybugs came by
and after that I just stood there
being happy
and crowning myself
as the Butterfly Queen
and mum got angry
because I was a mess
and my hair was tangled
and full of dirt
seems like flowers in my hair
didn't make me pretty at all
but now I am a grown up, and I am happy too,
because I can put eyeliner without getting teary eyes
and I can tangle mint leaves in my hair:
mum can't yell at an adult now, huh?
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
When in love,
I spend more time hating myself
than actually loving somebody.
Maybe that is
why I am never loved back.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I want to be my own muse
maybe if I write poems to myself
finding a pretty way to describe the stardust hidden in my hair
the perfume I leave on my scarves
the fact that my hands are always, always cold
so cold I just got used to it
maybe if I write about
how my tears taste like the sea
how my tea tastes more like sugar instead of, you know, tea
how kisses -technically- taste horrible to me
and still I find them so incredible
if I paint pictures of my neck or my chapped lips
or the way my hair just falls nicely when I just woke up
if I write about my favorite sweaters
and I sing sonnets inspired in my high heels
and how they make me feel taller
higher
four point five inches closer to the sky
maybe if I write for my muse
I can make her fall in love with me
and with that maybe
just maybe
I will
-finally-
be in love with myself
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
I have been playing a lot of hide and seek with love lately
that ************ surely knows how to hide
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
i will be famous and that is for sure
i will write and write a lot
people will love me
and hipsters will use my quotes as Facebook statuses
you know hipsters like to brag they read
and critics would glorify my prose
even though I never liked critics at all
(if they don't write, hoy can they even judge other's work?)
mum would be proud
her girl finally made it after all that hard work
she's finally succeding after that time her boyfriend dumped her
and she spent months doing nothing but
going outside, a little
crying, much
writing, very very much
writing like her life depended of it
and now honey finally made it
her name now appears in book covers
in shiny gold cursive
my life will be shiny gold cursive too
i will spend my money in libraries and nice hats
and eat swiss chocolates in a king sized bed
(loaded with pillows, of course)
huge lines for book signings
big black shades with crystals and the pointy upper corner thing
i will be interviewed for famous magazines
and have margaritas in pretty glasses by the pool side
and get drunk, but fancily
with cigars and diamonds and couture dresses
yes sir, i will live good
and you will remember
you will remember as you flip the pages of my book
that time when you insisted on reading my poems
not because you like poems, since you hate them
just because your vanity was stronger
you will flip though my best seller
your name as title
no picture, just pure white emptyness
just your name and mine in a side
(by your side, like i used to believe i wanted to live)
you will read about you
after all this time, you will see
i will make sure i say something nice about you here and there
because you were stardust
but honestly, you were more of a black hole
and i will them them about that
i will tell them everything
that day when you called
that day when you didn't
that day when you told me writing was a waste of time
that day when you said "maybe we would be better off apart"
that day, a week later, when you got a new lady as company
they will know you
they will ask about you
and i won't answer
until i win a really good prize
a prize good enough to stand up and say a little speech
and i will thank, on the verge of tears
you know tears always look good in those cases
(even though tears were useless when i missed you)
i will thank, this order:
to god
no speech would be complete without thanking our lord
and momma and poppa
you told me to reach my dreams and this night feels like a dream, actually
my editor
who believed through thick and thin
and mostly, to you
because without you, nothing of this would have happened
if you didn't turn away that night
maybe i would have still loved you
maybe i wouldn't have aspired to become better
maybe i would have lived forever by your pathetic side
luckily you did
and you will remember
you can be sure as **** i won't let you forget.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
mum asks
*why you show your poems to strangers
but not to me?*
mum doesn't know
poetry is light
but it can also be darkness
sometimes it is mostly darkness
and poetry is history
and experiences
and things you want to happen
and things you don't want to see
poetry isn't always
chocolate-filled with a coat of sugar
it isn't always pretty metaphors
and nice descriptions of nice feelings
mum doesn't know
my poems can turn a little darker
twisted just like my mind
and she doesn't know
the way I love
or the way I hate
and she would surely ask
and she would surely know who and why and what
and strangers don't know
who the hell I am talking about
and they don't care
as long as they read a good piece
mum asks
I don't reply.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
there's a lot of holes in my life
for example
my waist takes as little space as possible;
a curve is formed in each side
in order to be fitted by
somebody's hands
and i would like them to be your hands
between every bone of my spine
there's a little pause pretending to shape
a path long enough to be toured by
somebody's fingers
and i would like them to be your fingers
when i stretch my neck i find
angles in my collarbones
a piece of architecture to be traced by
somebody's mouth
and i would like it to be your mouth
but your hands hold the curves of other waist
and your fingers wander other road
and your mouth traces the lines of other architecture
and i have all of these holes
and there's a hole in my bed
and i would like to have two
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
I believe poetry revolves around
things that can be found interesting
sometimes even magical
like
coffee
and tea
and cigarettes
and the colours of the sky
and the ashes of cigarettes
and love
and burning desire
and hate
and sour bitterness
and thoughts after midnight
and people like
you.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC