I dwell on thoughts,
I examine the sum of my experiences,
Sometimes, I spit out extreme emotions.
I search in vain for something common.
I observe the struggles of all conscious beings,
looking for a universal language
that unites rather than divides.
I know…
I won't be able to ...
I won't find...

Has everything already been said or written?
Fortunately, the sun is still there,
watching over me.
Its light always finds its way
to attract my soul like a magnet
calming gently
agitated states of consciousness…

Seeing the raindrops
meet a passing existence,
in limpid tears

Gaia

I remember the warm autumn's bare soil,
the aftermath of the harvest.

The setting sun touched my shape, and
I pressed my ear to the ground.

My heart was beating so fast.
The Earth’s rhythms were so gentle and calming.

The warmth and relaxing grounding
whispered a subtle narration that I can’t recall.

The wind sang the future, and I, lying on the earth,
I listened to the past, closed in the dust of past generations.

How comforting is this echo of my childhood
It gave me strength and conviction.

I took the right path with the sun, wind, and soil.
The freedom of my narration.

Tell me, voice,
How much time have you spent
touching heads and hearts?
Demanding to shape new worlds,
giving hope through despair?

This is a community of Catchers Dreamers,
growing as they look out of their windows.
They glue a torn truth,
completing and filling in new meanings
and symbols to push away
cruel and illogical realities,
political performances.

Today, it’s so difficult to write poems
in the empty spaces,
when money assigns values
to be or not to be.

Opening the little *****
with a metaphor, and pain,
they spin, reading and writing
silver threads are punching their hands
impossible to relieve this irreversible tension.

What a beautiful tone of
polyphonic orchestral poetic flow,
of thousands, millions of words,
serious and bitter losses,
coming closer and much closer
to a Common Human Denominator.

She lost thin hair
for worries.
The bones shrank
without stunning pain.
Body hunched
but still working.

Seeing lost angels
passing through,
dark labyrinths,
an alley of exiles.
No artifacts, no money
no fame…

So, why does she act
as if it belongs to her
all the tangy sweet world
in royal dominion?

She loves …
almost everyone
without any love.

Oh, this invisible,
subtle tenderness!
Too quiet to be spotted
by deafening loudness.

Somebody knocked at his window.
It was a dull, haunting sound.

Black tar filled a fearful, splintered mirror.
Something invisible touched his scruff.

That was a day, but the light faded into the night.
A cacophony of whispers shrouds his fearful heart.

It was so good, it was all right, as a sweet lullaby…
Who let a black Tesseract of doubt into his mind?

Exposed to both sides of black-and-white magicians,
playing their deceptive songs, their juggling tricks.

The human weeps for what could have been—
for devouring hunger, unfinished great plans…

Let him complete his painful catharsis,
let salty tears touch these deep wounds.

But when the next day comes,
tell him there are many more lost out there…

You know the truth: hell is hiding
in the black Tesseract of our heads and hearts…

Anxiety before anxiety,
sorrow before sorrow,
word before word.
I think it will arrive sooner
than I expected…

Had I felt differently?
Had I known better?
That “thing” was imprinted
on the heart of each child
before it was forgotten.

The Z boson? A particle of God?
Inner awareness?
Lightness and compassion
screaming: keep going!
Forgiveness is a gift
for healing.

I prefer to withdraw.
Foreseeing the future
is too painful.

I feel safe in my inertia,
my comfort zone, not acting
but that intrusive voice
keeps shouting: don’t stop!

If it weren’t the fear of fearing,
sorrow before sorrow,
word before word…
They don’t bother me anymore.
For different circumstances,
I’m ready now.

We are dreaming—
you and I,
and perhaps she, maybe he.

Thinking that blissful encounter
has taken place,
shaping us like a sweet
and gentle morning breeze

Never again will any rejection
cause pain,
because that appointment
has taken place.

Blessed are those who have met
and blessed are those who
still wait,
in the state of sweet elevation.

Under my eyelids,
small and large, hidden feelings.
They are pinching, twisting,
healing me.

But when I open my eyes,
everything begins anew.
The train cuts through reality
flowing in a big hurry.
This is my private driving force.

The nod of ironic thoughts
bursts inside implicit words.
Welcome my smile-finally
you have appeared!
My missed special guest.

Now, everything is fine.
I only enjoy a comic mood.
It was too serious and heavy
So, I switch off my mode:
Complicating Even Simple
I choose to jump in a rumpled glory
between spicy, witty meanings.

Her soul was torn apart
into a dozen shreds.
How would she sew it up?
Such pieces couldn’t be stitched together again.
And it was such a beautiful, pastel-colored dress.
There was everything in her—
The desire to create,
First love,
and everything that could yet happen.
Only trembling hands,  
emptiness, fear, dry throat
and astonishment
that what had just happened
was merely a distant hour.
She wanted to return to her mother,
but she already knew the end
was coming on that frosty morning.
That girl would never come back to herself.

Every time I recognize this feeling
in the tonality of deeply shifting sounds...
The words start to flow—
so naïve,
with illogical convictions
not to doubt.

I think I’m in trouble,
but I smile at this joyful,
passing state of thought.
Utopia is Utopia, meant not to exist—
It’s a controlled illusion, like a sedative.

I can go there and return
in a millisecond of a human thought.
Creating alternative worlds,
following the traces
of a tender yet aching life.
It keeps me, for a moment, feeling
so vast, deep, and complete.

Outside, I’m so distant from games.
Sometimes I don’t even remember
the language I used to speak.
Unfamiliar words come to me
like a flashback, like déjà vu...
Finally, to recognize where I exist—
in the present moment, in real
circumstances, assumptions.

This is not a bizarre illness
to try to understand…
My reflections inside are still safe.
I just hold every shattered human soul,
seeing them without judgment,
without control…
This is my quiet, ephemeral way
to set compassion free.

To close emotions tightly?
A broken mosaic,
it’s hard to fix.
It's better not to risk another fall.

Tears are gone,
the eyes are empty,
like a vast desert,
with blue-black flashes of memory,
hitting him out of control.

Life appears and disappears
in the cells of the body.
Emotions?
He can't feel it anymore.
There’s too much pain.

When the last wound heals,
he will pass through life
as a New Automatic Person.
Anesthetized to all sensations,
Although deep down,
he would like to feel
something again.

Palabras en prisa,
llamadas por auriculares
Haciendo la compra,
Recogiendo el aliento tras la coma
Convencidos de que la multitarea
Resuelve nuestros difíciles momentos
Esperamos los futuros ahorros
de los minutos perdidos.
Alertas, tiempo, cartas virtuales,
¿De hecho, quién tiene razón en esta muchedumbre?
¿Los que están gritando cada vez más fuerte o
los que siguen teniendo sus voces calladas?
Solo la Tierra parece mantener su tiempo,
Adagio, girando alrededor de sí misma.
Como si siempre fuera independiente.
Desde lejos tan tranquila, celeste y acogedora
Parece ser imperturbable.
El planeta elipsoidal
Dispuesto a ser habitado para siempre.

Human beings
completely intricate—
distorted, subtle, direct, ironic,
melancholic, and other adjectives…
Not as clearly defined and innovative as their works.

In transcending the mirage,
longing for fulfillment,
made from the same clay,
the same flesh and bones.

They were born and still live,
sometimes, they pass away.

In the marketplace of lost illusions,
unwanted experiences—
transforming, shaping the messages
received from the Looking Glass World.
Seeking a new idea, like an exotic flavor—
to remember, to forget, to be angry,
to reflect, to love, to hate, to be loved.

And all of this for something so elusive,
to make life more tender.
Their fate was decided before
they could ever think...
And for what?

To laugh, to cry,
to be safe or stoic,
and to touch this strange structure.

Losing grip on reality,
without balance,
as they used to say.

I’m already on a dizzying poetic carousel,
with one foot in my normal life,
and one hand in virtual poetry.

I’m a barbarian in a woman’s shape.
I stomp into discourse with heavy steps.
Driven by impulse, twisting like switchbacks.

There are so many narratives...
With one hand, I hold a megaphone to my mouth.
With the other hand, from my heart, from my head,
I pull out jagged digressions and awkward arguments.

If I could weave just one logical thread
to see a common perspective,
to stop interpreting…

I would stand tall
on the pedestal of thorny incidents,
inept appointments, yet proud
that I would finally catch myself.

I know, I can only dream of
patiently knitting rushing words together.
I can’t stitch these threads into
a colored, beautiful patchwork,
that could give some warmth to the quandary,
or as a cover for chronic nostalgia.

Meanwhile,
within the conventions of social dreaming
I tilt my head from side to side
Asking myself with incredulity,
How is it possible that the voice
screaming inside me
sounds so weak and dull?

Three wheels:
The past and the future contain today.
I’ve forgotten what I wanted.
What mattered slipped away quietly.
I’m seeing the particle of bliss
in the fulfilled gaze of the women
from the old photograph.

Enigmatic smiles,
on tired faces.
How do they do it?
The apparent peace with
the fleeting triumph of lightness.
I would like to take off all my desires,
to find a moment of mental rest
but my valley of thoughts is still waiting
for my own,
a long-awaited miracle.

In troubled times, eruptions split the sky.
When the two cosmic lines converge,
the technological order unveils itself.

The cycle repeats in another scene,
endlessly turning.
Don’t lend it your memories, Ulisses.

The door of the Panopticon is crossed.
The glass, soundless, shatters.
Tomorrow dissolves into a quantum chance,
screaming conflicting images.

Don’t be lost in lonely silence.
Let go of melancholy.
Come back home, to the real people,
where hope lingers despite the inky fog.
There, you will feel better.

It’s hard to tell myself,
that I'm nothing more than
a collection of possibilities.

I judge myself for my feelings,
I restrict my attitude to formality,
to avoid being hurt.

When I think that I am above,
comprehensible, intellectual…
I feel immersed in cold waters,
floating on the surface of my thoughts.

I accept and reject what the world offers me.
I express concepts to peel off
a layer of myself,
until reaching the black core.

I’m just afraid to swim on my back
not to sink into the soft mud.
My muscles are numbing under gravity.

I don’t want to return to my mental cage.
Hide again? Pretend?
Yes, I think I’m closer to myself
than I could have imagined.

When bad things happen, where are the people?
A man fights alone in silent despair,
while laughter and screaming echo through the void.
Indifferent voices suffocate the heavy air.

The window for change will open,
but they waste another chance in the cold.
In rooms of power, apathy keeps growing.
Psychedelic visions masquerade as the truth

They gamble and sell domains.
Those for whom ideas matter most
are led to the pyre, to oblivion.
Human systems are shifting.

So, it’s time for another soulless game
for the inevitable castling.  
As the tower and the king,
sharing the power, they dance wildly.