I love you,
I love you relentlessly,
I love you with strength as hard as the ocean tides.
I love you in many places,
I love you in public and in secret,
In the secrets my heart hides.

I love you without saying,
I love you when I look at you,
And when you look at me,
I love you more.

I love you when I tell you everything,
And I love you when I say nothing at all.

I love you with the roses that die in a few weeks,
Just as they wither and die,
I'll love you until I become your rose.

I love you without proof,
As I'm the only witness,
I'll testify I do,
And if the verdict is loving you till death,
Till then, I'll be loving you.

I've loved you,
I love you,
And I will love you.
I love you now, tomorrow and yesterday.
Each day more than before.
I love you, even now,
And then,
And once this verse is over
I'll still be loving you,
because thats what I do,
What I will do,
Until loving you
becomes the only thing left to do.
Tell me darling do you still remember?
Back when I kissed you under the sky so blue.
And can you still feel that cold December?
Under the covers I made love to you.

Oh lover let your mind never forget,
Us two dancing under the heavy rain.
And oh dear may your heart never regret,
Or your sole reminder will be the pain.

Oh honey if you don't love me no more,
Don't kiss my forehead when it's all a lie.
Go on leave the nest and walk out the door.
Our love is a dying fire, so let it die.

If nothing else matters I love you still,
And thinking about it, I always will.
La luna,
La luna llena y redonda,
Esta hueca y vacía.
El viento,
El viento rápido y feroz,
Esta lento y frío.
Las aguas,
El agua deslizante y fresca,
Esta estancada por los metales humanos y el estiércol y la basura la detienen.
La tierra,
La nutrida tierra,
Esta seca y quebrantada.
Los árboles,
Los fuertes y robustos árboles,
Estándares de la vida,
Se inclinan hacia la tierra seca.
La luna hueca se refleja en la tierra vacía y seca;
Y la tierra esta seca porque el agua no corre
Y esta estancada
Y el estiércol
Y la basura
Convierten el agua en lodo,
Y el agua se seca y desvanece
Y la tierra endurece,
Y los árboles, los grandes árboles sé mueren,
Y ya no existe el viento,
Y todo muere.
Muere la tierra,
Porque el agua se a secado,
Por culpa de los metales humanos.
Por culpa de los metales humanos muere el agua que seca la tierra que da muerte a los árboles que callan al viento.
Y la luna,
La luna hueca y desolada desciende,
Y nace el sol caluroso,
Y quema todo,
Y todo muere.
I see poetry in waking up every day feeling your breath in the back of my neck.

I see poetry in the smell of eggs, bacon and lemonade in the kitchen while I shower.

I see poetry in my wallet where your picture always is.

I see poetry in the morning when I step outside and you wave good bye.

I see poetry in our messages and every little reminder that you love me still.

I see poetry in your body as you slowly undress for me.

I see poetry in you, and me, like pen and paper, we both play our part.

So we make poetry in the sheets,
And we write it in our hearts.
"I'm tired of reading shitty poetry".
I say as I read back and forth,
"Poems aren't what they used to be",
They used to spark an emotion as powerful as a tempestous sea.
"They just don't make them like they used to before",
Not the type that made you cry or fall in love, not anymore.
Poems are not diaries, at least,
Not in my beliefs.
Then again, what can I call this?
Where's Whitman? or Hemingway?
Or Bukowski? where's Neruda?
Where are they when we mostly need them?
And who to replace them?
I just, for once, want something worth reading.
"I'm tired of reading shitty poetry".
I tell myself as I read this one.
May be I've written all I had to write,
may be I've said all I had to say...

The gate was closed,
the river dried,
the portal sealed,
the poet died.

I've packed my things while there's still time,
soon they'll march in here and take this too,
I don't feel nothing I've lost the key,
but then again what's it to you?

God if the crime I commited was charged with sin,
by heaven's gates take anything,
anything but my palpitating fingers,
return to me the empty words,
the shattered puzzle I cannot complete,
to form the feeling that still yet lingers.

For what's a singer without a song?
What's a knight without his sword?
What's a writer without words?

Take the sunrise from my eyes,
or the music from my mouth,
take the songs out of my ears,
take it all that I adore,
but oh God let me write once more!
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