Mama, I wish you knew
All those times I exposed myself
Didn't want to get hurt
But here I am
So broken again.
Mama, give me a hug
I need you more than ever
No more tears to cry
I won't close my eyes
I won't let it go
Mama, I tried my best
Do not let anyone else inside
Don't want to see
Don't want to feel
Just keep going on.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
Hear the voices outside
Don't be fooled by the laughs
People come and go wearing it
But there not feeling it
They can't feel the joy
Only emptiness and addiction
They cover it with this big smile
Don't be fooled
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
I do not write anymore
Maybe my emotions are gone
Or there are no thoughts
Living my ordinary life
But tonight is different
Alone and fragile
Sick of anything ordinary
Hidden figures inside my head
The fall is slow
My feet are cold
But you can see my eyes burning
You can feel the thill
Just an ordinary night
With flames inside me
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
A rose in the high garden that you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped of impressionist mist.
Greys looking out from the last balustrades.
Modern painters in their black studios,
Sever the square root's sterilized flower.
In the Seine's flood an iceberg of marble
freezes the windows and scatters the ivy.
Man treads the paved streets firmly.
Crystals hide from reflections' magic.
Government has closed the perfume shops.
The machine beats out its binary rhythm.
An absence of forests, screens and brows
Wanders the roof-tiles of ancient houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon looms like a vast aqueduct.
Marines ignorant of wine and half-light,
decapitate sirens on seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.
A desire for form and limit conquers us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors flee.
Cadaqués, the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of steps and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An old god of the woods gives children fruit.
Her fishermen slumber, dreamless, on sand.
On the deep, a rose serves as their compass.
The ****** horizon of wounded hankerchiefs,
unties the vast crystals of fish and moon.
A hard diadem of white brigantines
wreathes bitter brows and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but fail to beguile,
and appear if we show a glass of fresh water.
Oh Salvador Dalí, of the olive voice!
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush
or your pigments that circle those of your age,
I salute your yearning for bounded eternity.
Healthy soul, you live on fresh marble.
You flee the dark wood of improbable forms.
Your fantasy reaches as far as your hands,
and you savor the sea's sonnet at your window.
The world holds dull half-light and disorder,
in the foreground humanity frequents.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
mark out the perfect scheme of their courses.
The flow of time forms pools, gains order,
in the measured forms of age upon age.
And conquered Death, trembling, takes refuge
in the straightended circle of the present moment.
Taking your palette, its wing holds a bullet-hole,
you summon the light that revives the olive-tree.
Broad light of Minverva, builder of scaffolding,
with no room for dream and its inexact flower.
You summon the light that rests on the brow,
not reaching the mouth or the heart of man.
Light feared by the trailing vines of Bacchus,
and the blind force driving the falling water.
You do well to place warning flags
on the dark frontier that shines with night.
As a painter you don't wish your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of unforeseen clouds.
The fish in its bowl and the bird in its cage.
You refuse to invent them in sea or in air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen,
with your honest eyes, their smal agile bodies.
You love a matter defined and exact,
where the lichen cannot set up its camp.
You love architecture built on the absent,
admitting the banner merely in jest.
The steel compass speaks its short flexible verse.
Now unknown islands deny the sphere.
The straight line speaks of its upward fight
and learned crystals sing their geometry.
Yet the rose too in the garden where you live.
Ever the rose, ever, our north and south!
Calm, intense like an eyeless staute,
blind to the underground struggle it causes.
Pure rose that frees from artifice, sketches,
and opens for us the slight wings of a smile
(Pinned butterfly that muses in flight.)
Rose of pure balance not seeking pain.
Ever the rose!
Oh Salvador Dalí of the olive voice!
I speak of what you and your paintings tell me.
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush,
but I sing the firm aim of your arrows.
I sing your sweet battle of Catalan lights,
you love of what might be explained.
I sing your heart astronomical, tender,
a deck of French cards, and never wounded.
I sing longing for statues, sought without rest,
your fear of emotions that wait in the street.
I sing the tiny sea-siren who sings to you
riding a bicycle of corals and conches.
But above all I sing a shared thought
that joins us in the dark and the golden hours.
It is not Art, this light that blinds our eyes.
Rather it is love, friendship, the clashing of swords.
Rather than the picture you patiently trace,
it's the breast of Theresa, she of insomniac skin,
the tight curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship a board-game brightly painted.
May the tracks of fingers in blood on gld
stripe the heart of eternal Catalonia.
May stars like fists without falcons shine on you,
while your art and your life burst into flower.
Don't watch the water-clock with membranous wings,
nor the harsh scythe of the allegories.
Forever clothe and bare your brush in the air
before the sea peopled with boats and sailors.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
The wind has something unique
It is invisible and visible at the same time
It blows you away
It has immeasurable strength
You can hear the whistle coming as it shaves gently
The walls and windows
Did you shiver? Or did you scare?
Did you feel the cold breeze inside you?
Look deep
The wind is not your enemy and neither your ally
But it may take you to another corner of a town
Depends on you
Choose your needs, your desires
Take a lane and start running against it
Claim yourself but also remember
You can always change your direction
Just follow the arrow where it points
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
You are gentle.
The whisper of a breeze
During a summer's eve.
The slightest tremor
Of a broken melody.
Yet you still play the violin.
Softly.
Gently.
The strings moving along
To your song.
This is your love laid bare,
And you hope it is enough
To show her you care,
Loud enough to hear,
Close enough to feel,
Because the strings are your lifeline,
And the music is your heartbeat.
And oh yes, it is enough for her.
Because there is nothing louder,
Nothing closer,
Than the soft & gentle song
Of a lover.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
kiss my lips
tell me i'm pretty
grab my thighs
tell me you miss me
clutch my hips
tell me I'm your only one
look me straight in the eyes
tell me you need me
break my heart
and tell me you love me.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 8:50 AM UTC
i want you
in every way there is to want a person
from lazy rainy days
sitting around in underwear
wrapped up in the covers
enveloped in each other
to lustful late nights
high happy and in love
too absorbed with each other
to focus on anything else
i want you
and i see so much in you
that counting all your perfections
would be like counting the stars
there's too many to keep track of
and they just seem endless
i am utterly in love
with every inch of your being
every corner of your mind
and everything in between
i might not know what i believe
or where i'm going
or what i'm doing
but i do hope
you'll hold my hand
and wander blindly with me
because as long as i'm with you
i don't need a destination
you are the journey
i am simply enamored with your entity
captivated by your character
fascinated
infatuated
amorous
in love
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 6:03 AM UTC