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.

Am I the one you think about
when the skies open
and you expect a storm to take you?
Am I the one you think about
when sheets turn angry
in the sleepless heat of the night?

This partial solidity,
this gulf of an ocean;
words recited by heavy eyes,
the palm reader's devotion.

Am I the one you think about
when elephants drown in the salt-marsh fields
and tears sting your eyes?
Am I the one you think about
when you apply your eyeliner
and mourn your reflection?

This endless question,
this echo of no movement;
lipstick on your glass will bloom,
my sickly, time-lapse delusion.

Am I the one you think about
when the tanks move in
and you go to war with yourself?
Am I the one you think about
when the skies open
to miles of dust and distance?

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

I write with bleeding fingers,
I left crimson on the white washed walls.
Clean it off, but a plaster won't-
fix this.

I smashed a mirror to stop slitting my wrists,
shards of glass litter the room, glowing silver.
Sharper than a grey, blunt, blade,
and there is enough for every vein.

I burnt my scar today
To see if it still peels
The mirror looks away
Through the shed of my blank tears

Through my depression zones
The only thing I've known
No one truly cares
We all die alone

So what have i become
My sweetest friend
Everyone i know, goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My whole pile of dirt
I will let you down, i will make you hurt



You really don't have anything to fear.



I wear this crown of bones
Upon my scorching skin
Memories of old
Broken days of sin
Beneath the stains of time
The pain still feels
You are someone else
I have disappeared

So what have i become
My sweetest friend
Everyone i know, goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
I don't know what its worth
I will let you down, i will make you hurt

If i could start again
A billion planets away
I would keep myself
I would find my faith