Blood stained sheets,
   the smell of **** and ****,
      creases in white linen , never looked so colorful
          endless rivers of tears and anguish,
              dreary flowers in drool stains,
                    if sheets could talk. . .
                        they would beg "please stop"
                            above a never ending bedrock of old mattress springs,
                               that groin and creak,
                                   a tectonic shift of emotions,
                                         disturbed by a thunderous voice
                                               " clean yourself up, sorry"

a reminder you had your way. . .
         -ŘÃƤẸ

Ay mi amor,
  sangre de mis venas,
     lleno de amor
       por la patria
          las legendes de ridículo
              Comida de de los indios
ay mi amor
    lloro por ti,
        por el dia
           que visito los montes
               con su monasterios,
                   de dios. . .

Yellow flowers of 𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥,
  we mourn and come upon their pupils,
      under the many colors of papal picado,
        endless rainbow of sweet emotion,
                a distant reminder of what past,
                         what is gone,
                               & what is eternal

I am sustained in you,
  your words penetrate the darkest caverns of my soul,
        your being is the vertigo of my fantasy,
           I fall at your knees, and drink from your springs,
                your very essence fills me,
                       an endless reminder of my fear,
                                my loss of breath,
                                            for I am sustained in you,
                                                         I hesitate, to let this dream end.
& I know this wanting of belonging,
    is a reflection of me onto you,
        but yet in the silence,
             my soul cries for you!
                    my sweet 𝓃𝒾𝓇𝓋𝒶𝓃𝒶

The world does not stop,
    from the trees,
          to the birds,
            always 𝓂🏵𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔,
               and I towards my tomb.

We are a flame,
   with age we grow,
        brighter,
           stronger,
             more ardent than the stars above,
                with age we die
                    to illuminate the next life.

I cried and cried,
   & the bird sang to me,
I cried and cried
   & the sun dripped his warm nectar onto me
I cried and cried
   & the moon with its endless reminder of beauty mocked me
So I dried my eyes,
  & laid in a quilt of grass
      in earthen sheets
         I went to sleep and forget,
              until I cry 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.