Sometimes I sit and write,
Poems about you and I,
About me and love, and love and sorrow
But in the mirror of my heart,
I realized they are all about me and I.

So silent, her despair,
The will to be seen , by whom she called her universe
Shallow and narrow, her soul
                                              and her body
Inked with the memory of thy heaven
But her skies turned grey, each time you looked away.

What can be more painful than a raging soul?
A body full of scars
A body drowned in suffering;
Dysmorphic image of a broken soul
So thin ,so close to nothing ,
So broken ,so close to sorrow
In pain, the body lies
The inked image of this broken heart.
Write poems not scars in thy skin,
Scripted history, the body is your friend.

In the depth of my solitude,
I can hear the noise of your silence.
The bloom of your longing,
I hear the skies, their whisper,
                              telling me you're gone.
I can feel the touch of your skin,
So biblical, so tender, most painful memory.
I can hear your words in this chaos of my soul,
The sorrow will be gone,
But you, my darling, you will never know.

I can hear the chaos of your promises
I can hear the lies, so strong I begun to take as truth
I feel the silence of your heart,
Emotions far too lost .
So frigile her heart became;
The blades of your words as pen on paper
Inked her soul ,her love ,her sorrow.

The echo of your soul
Singing waves in the ocean of her heart
Sound of a perfect orchestra.
The silence of thy heart,
Rhythm of most beautiful poem.
The touch of thy skin upon her scarred body,
Blessing of an angel.
Sing for her soul, the sound of thy
                                voice is heaven.

The wind...
The wind, it fades away the voices,
Each promise, the hopes.
It fades...the time, the love, your kisses
In wind, the Sun is hiding the brightness of your soul.
It fades... the power of your words, the pain, the noises.
The noises of my mind when the time will fade us.

Sitting at the desk you used for studying,
Sitting on the chair that meant pride and wisdom,
Sitting in silence, in grief.
For oneself, for freedom, grief of a hopeless mind.

The trip, so vivid, the colours,
I feel it, I'm trembling, pleasure induced by shameful vices,
So broken in unexplained  happiness,
The desk is covered, it's shameful, disgraceful...

The agony of the silent voices
The longing of pain in an army of sorrows
How biblical it is, the life of an angel
The life of the voices, screaming for return;
And scream, once more, for it the skies won't hear you.