This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.

How could I forget?

         I was surrounded, confused,
        Overwhelmed, infused.
        Every waking moment,
        I breathed for you.
        I breathed Because of you.
        Everything I would do,
        It was challenging, it was new,
        It was with you.

             How could I forget?

        You made the hairs on the back of my neck stand,
        Constant butterflies and a shiver ran,
        Through my spine,
        Disc to disc,
        Wish for wish,
         I wouldn't take back any of it.

             How could I forget?

        Sentimental. Empty bottles I kept.
        Theres only one I held onto I regret,
        Keeping it bottled up to the brim.
        I'm volatile. Low boiling point.
        I'm missing something that needs,
        To be filled like an empty bookcase,
        But I find books hard to read.

         Why can't I seem to be at peace?

         Why am I tormented by my past feelings,
         When i try to go asleep?

I'll take a bitter kiss
if it heals the pain in my chest.
Bed-sheets stink of hate and unrest;
My nostrils fill with the smell of blood.
Hers. Mine. Ours. It smells like regret.
   But all is well;
It must be for the best.

Still I'll take a bitter kiss
over a night of hateful, fierce ***
  If it heals the pain in my chest,
  If it's what you think is best,
  If it calms this weary flood.
                                            These sheets stink of blood.
                                             Cut me until I cannot heal;
                                            Steal me until I cannot feel.
           Then I will rest, alone in a field
                                  of scarlet flowers
                              and azure starlight
                                     and no regrets.