woman: I'm tired

man: of what?

woman: loving you.

Demons possess me
In a most peculiar way.
Take over my sight in spectrums
No-one can see

Sweeten my gut,
Swallow my hate,
Sedate my mind with hellish drums;
I smile more times than not.

Whispers crack the frown on the face of me.
Beat me.
Till smiles out of me trumps
And smiles become the only thing
A passing stranger can see

Truly, at the end of the day only kindness matters

It's only a ruse, I know its not right

I'm keeping my feelings way out of sight

You're mad and so crazy, is that venom I see?

Please swallow, then speak, you're spitting on me

Bad chemicals, I know, it's not all your fault

Your brain, at this time, is under assault

You're yelling and screaming and out of your seat

Is met by the same with a mighty chest beat

I can be louder than you, if that's what it takes

I'll stop your train by applying the brakes

The truth is I'm acting, I'm not really mad

The truth is I love you and I know you're just sad

Now you are silent, your anger did cease

My ruse it did work, and now there is peace!

But she’s my north and south and
east and west.
She’s that first spring day,
and last autumn night.
She’s sunset,
and dawn.
She’s the cool rain in a hot summer day,
and a warm sunray in the coldest winter morning.
She’s the petrichor and the breeze of the sea.
She’s the biggest expression of love.
She’s herself.
But again.
She’s not mine.

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.