Quizas mi lengua se acostumbro
a el silencio,
que ha dejado de formular palabras,
tal vez,
mis labios se acostumbraron a los tuyos,
Pero en cuanto el silence se quedo callado
Fue cuando mas hablamos

I may come to you
like a wave
Quietly at night
Or like a tide
crashing at the shores
But love
I may come

God if by chance, I were to forget about you
Please, do come, knock into my door
And if by chance, I were to not open
Please, my lord, make yourself at home

here, here is the key.
Here, come in

This my heart is the door
This my life is your home

I want to sip and sip from the wine of knowledge
And be drunk without worries
But I rather just want to sip and sip from the water of wisdom
And remain sober,
Until I become purify
Until I satiate my thirst to understand life
Until I feel hydrated with joy
Until I feel alive

I could become a pen and lay in a desk forever,
I could wait hidden in a drawer and wait there forever,
but what's the use of being a pen?

Sometimes I wonder...

Is it fair to remain in one place until the ink dries,
until there's nothing else in me
that could leave a mark anywhere in the world?

Is it fair to be in one place until someone comes looking for me,
Until with me
that someone could leave a mark anywhere in the world?

Though at times I ponder...

Why can't I just be the person who holds the pen?

And then I think,
I will suffice with just being like a pen.

Sometimes you wonder,
is this really what I am meant to do?
And no matter how much you ponder,
the answers don't seem to come to you.

It feels as if you are lost in time,
sitting in a chair in front of a computer,
just wondering and pondering about life,
As if by just thinking, you became a writer.

But a writer mustn't just think,
a writer mustn't just wonder and ponder,
a writer must also type what the writer thinks,
but also what the writer feels as it wonders and ponders.

Yes, it's a tricky thing to do,
To connect the wonders to the feelings
to wonder what to feel
and to feel what one wonders

And  yes, it's a tricky thing to do,
to ponder about wonders
to wonder how to ponder
and to ponder how to feel about what one wonders

It's really a tricky thing do,
to be able to express what one thinks
and what one feels,
without really wondering and pondering,
because ultimately, what one writes
shouldn't exactly be thought out.

it's meant to be filtered out of us.

I wandered barrels in between my tongue
tripping over words,
as if I tip toed to reach the clock,
then crack, hearing the wooden floor,
I cringed then ran,
to the kitchen screaming to speak more.

On the waterway,
a white heron watches clouds;
And while passing by,
a couple see the water;
reflect over the heron.





L.L.

I tried writing like I used to write
To find myself along the lines
But I find me a long time ago
And then when I did I stopped

As if I reached some stop sign
Or a red traffic light
And I stayed there
Until again, I started to write

But this time I got lost
I could not fun where I needed to go
Then I tried asking for directions
But it was just me
Lost in my own writes

So once again I ended up at the stoppe sign
But this time, I found you
And by finding you, I found me
I have no motive to get lost

I don't know
But somewhere in my chest
I feel you

It must be the warmth
This energy that comes from within
That keeps me alive
And at the same time feeling stable

It must be this feeling
That comes from within
that warms me up
From the center of my chest
Until this energy flows
Through out my body

It must be this feeling I get that I don't feel anything else

If by chance my lord you hear me,
Please, help me think clearly,
Help my heart feel ease
Help my mind feel at peace
Help my soul connect with both
yes, with my heart and mind, with both

And if by chance dear god you hear me,
Help me be at peace,
Clear my thoughts from unwanted thoughts
Yes, my lord purify my body and soul.

Dear God,

Through my guardian angel
Send to me the knowledge
Send to me the cure
That I may hear within its whispers
How to achieve peace

can it be possible that God in all his mighty,
when he created men,
did not know that turning dirt to flesh,
could corrupt the soul?

Could it be possible that God in all his mighty,
did not know that dirt can contaminate?
or did he know, but hoped, no I mean,
did he have faith that man can become clean?

Or is it possible that the soul is a moving river,
some oasis, or moving water,
that should remain in constant motion,
to remain clean? or become clean?

Could it be that since our birth, our soul,
this river, starts losing it's current,
and thus, we end up drying up,
becoming more like what we were, dirt,
and nothing else?

But then,
how can our souls remain in constant movement?
How can this river continue growing?
Is it through pain? Is it through tears?
Or could it be, that through our tears
we can reflect in them and find ourselves?
As if those tears were raindrops, falling
one on one, then forming this river,
that keeps on growing to reflect ourselves?

Could it be?

Love,

Water me with hopes as if I were that flower in your garden.
Don't let me thirst for them,
Else, I may grow roots deep into the soil where I was planted,
until I find them...



---
Yes...

I won't be that flower that stays in one spot,
And then dries and withers and dies
I won't be that flower that blooms once in love,
And then dries and withers and dies

But I would be that flower that blooms
each and every time
whenever you are around.

I would be that flower
that only wishes to capture your sight
And to inspire you to be the best of best in life.

You are like the light that passes through my eyes
You are like the lenses that corrects my vision
And I would like to wear you every day,
And I would like to never remove you from my head
But everyone needs a space,
And from time to time, I just remove you as if you were my glasses,
And I place you in a safe place,
Where no one could harm you, nor hurt you, nor shatter you,
I just remove you...
I remove you from my head,
And I place you in my heart
to keep you safe

And I like that...

There's a time for everything...
Like the distinct watches that exists,
We created them.

Man, I don't know...

But I could be a bottle,
lost and found,
First thrown into a sea to wander
Then thrown into a sea to be found
But hey, here I am,
floating in a sea, swaying in between waves,
Then floating here, into your hands,
With a message to say
Be just, be Kind

Live life with dignity,
And love,

Oh love,
live life.

Oh Jesus Christ,
I follow you day and night,
I know you are righteous and just
And that in good people, you are found

Oh Jesus Christ,
I love you with all my heart.
In you, I find the strength
And the courage to go on in life

I know it's not easy to do what is right
And that often we deviate from our paths
But oh Jesus christ,
I met a man,
Who makes me feel energize, and alive,
Who gives me the joy, that I needed to continue following your path.

The waters of the seas I wandered in,
seemed calm, the shores sounded peaceful,
I yearned to walk in their sands.

But I floated between waves that lulled me into sleep,
And I floated between waves that moved me into tears,

But now, I know I have deviated from my path
I must searched for a northern star
I need to be guided
onto the right path

And for that,
I mustn't walk on the sands of the shores I once yearned to walk.

While walking for a long time, I saw a field with roses,
All sort of roses,
Colorful, whites and pinks,
And reds,
And all sort of roses,
With and without thorns,
And I, mesmerized by their beauty, stopped my walked

Right into the garden of roses,
To meet love,
To meet the love that'll inspire me to live
To meet the love that'll be the fuel to help me keep walking.

I want him to know what I know,
This feeling in me, that only me knows,
If then, I could feel free,
I could forget that the world exists,
And just let go...

But only I know, and I know,
That I should not tell him so,
I know that this feeling in me,
I should just let it go...

If by chance the hands of time
has shaken my hands with blessings,
I would greet anyone
with a handshake

But if by chance the hands of time
have embraced me with compassion
I would embrace anyone
who needs of that compassion

Yet if by chance the hands of time
has touched me with love
I would love everyone
But I would not touch all


Of that I'm sure

To meet in Halloween night
what a witchy spell that was

to dance and feel the music
resonate in our hearts,
It's too feel the rhymth of friendship
tap our senses,
pulling us closer apart.

To know the truth
it's as if not knowing it at all,
it only hurts,
it aches
but at least we know
what's going on

because the truth is
Like a knot around our necks,
meant to be unknotted,
to allow us to breathe

I wish to sleep
In the petals of a rose
And never again open this eyes of mine,
I wish to smell the fragrance
and sleep, forever,
forever more

But everytime
I close this eyes of mine
I awake somewhere
And I do not know where i am at,

Though it isn't a rose
Where I sleep
Nor the petals that I feel,
It just my bed,
The bed sheets,
And me,
awake again

Trying to find some rest

In my dreams

Why must I write using imagery?

Should I paint words as if those words
were canvases?
Should I paint words as if by coloring them,
I could draw the eye of the reader into my poems?
Should I just paint and paint words
for the sake of painting an image
into the reader's mind?
Should I?

Ah!

Should I just paint words for them to see
what reality does not allow them to see?
Should I paint words for them to feel,
what reality does not allow them to feel?

Or Should I just paint words and become an artist, and don't care about anything else, not about me holding a brush, not about me, having colors,
Just about me, painting what I see,
What I feel, while I paint words with whatever I have in my hands.

Should I?

There's this thing called the ego,
It likes sitting on the passanger sit,
Until it takes the wheel,
Then it stirs us into a steep road,
Away from everyone in our lives,
It just drives us towards a steep hill,
Where everyone looks like ants,
And it continues driving,
Until it drive us crazily mad,
And we just feel like getting away from those ants
Or we just feel like stepping on those ants,
Because it feels like the ants,
are coming towards us,
As if the ants are walking on our skins,
And we itch and itch to just scratch
But this ego continues driving us away,
more and more towards that steep road,
Where everyone keeps looking like ants,
Unless we take the wheel back.

March 3, 2015

Haven't written in a while,

I wished I had
But it was raining
And I only had the set of clothes I wore
No extra pants,
No extra blouse,

Plus I knew I would hear a scream,
"Come inside"
But instead I tripped on a puddle, then I stood up
Soaked, drenched,
And I did not enjoy it
But I wished I had had

Your lips have been stitched up,
your words have been mummified,
Here you await,
in this tomb, putrifying no more,
But getting old and lost.
Almost turning to dust.

Has the Wind stop blowing?
said the frog with fearful croaks

Can you hear not its whispers to the tree?
Can you feel not how it moves it to the roots? Asked the ant.

To which the frog with a jumped replied,
Croak! I hear the winds,
But I also feel how the trees
shake in fear.

In a moment, a bird came flying by and while fluttering its wings said:

I hear not
I see not

But I feel the Wind, its gentle touch.
I feel the wind, it's refreshing love.
I simply feel that there's nothing to be afraid of.

To which the ant replied,

That's because if your tree were to fall,
If your ground were to be Shaken up,
with your wings, a blessing of The Lord,
you can fly anywhere else
and find yourself a home.


....

To be continued

Is it possible God...
That we are like flour being sifted?

Has this flour of ours
been sitting upon the sifter of time
just sifting the clumps
that accumulated from keeping
the flour of ours
unmoving for a long time?

Must, we, be in a constant movement?

Could it be...
That each of us is a particle of that flour,
separating evenly, removing the lumps,
So that we all, together, could be baked
into a perfect loaf of bread?

Or could it be...
that each of us is like a package of flour
that must be sifted?

February 26, 2015

Do you know why you love her poems so much?
Because just like you, she is a beginner,
There isn't much quality in her poems for you to chew,
She feeds her readers purée,
Yum, no doubt,
But I as a reader prefer to chew
And put these teeth of mine
to some used

a pen wobbles
at the edge of a wooden desk
yearning for a hand

Love, you are like a bee,
You make my heart buzz and buzz,
Until I work to make honey,
That I won't even eat

I met the sword on my saddle today
I took it out
And I swayed it to the air
As if with its sharpness, it could cut
even the oxygen that you breathe,

But too foolish, I was,
to just swayed it and swayed it to the air,
I should have kept it in the saddle,
And just breathe the air

February 24, 2015

I breathe in. I breathe out.
I don't seem to understand life.
I'm sleepier than ever.
I crave a place to rest.
But I'm young. Younger than most.
Yet I feel old. Tired.
Rusty of living. But I'm happy.
I'm content with what I have.
I have Nothing yet everything I need.

Though sometimes I crave more
of what I don't need,
For instance, more sleep.
But I had enough, I should awake
And live my life

For out there, there is a place to enjoy.
And I have everything I need,
Yet nothing to lose.

What am I waiting for?

It happens very often, Often than ever
I say one thing but the thing I said
Is not the thing I wanted to say
But I said that thing anyways

And the thing is

That I can't say the thing I wanted to say
Because everyone just hears the same thing I said

I'm a plant, aren't I God?
I always seem to extend my faith
towards the light

As if my faith were branches,
trying to reach you
wherever you are,

It's just growing and growing,
Becoming greener and greener,
But too green
to fully understand
that the drier One gets, the easier
One burns with the fire of hell

I'm once again, falling in this depression.

I was told don't walk too close from that crater,
Many have been excavating the truths from this Earth,
Men have searched for the mysteries of the heavens
And look, how deep their excavations have become

Now Fear, the height. Fear, the depth.
For if by walking too close from that crater,
(That deep crater that you see there!
With no end...)
Your foot may trip and with your foot
your whole body may tumble down
Into that hole of vastness

You'll find yourself falling in desperation
Just falling without fully comprehending
the depths found within the walls of that crater.

And while falling, you'll pray to reach the end!
But there is no end, no bottom, no nothing,
You'll fall and fall, helplessly, and in lamentation

You'll try to hold from anything, from any rock,
your hand will try to grasp from anything, from any rock,
But there's nothing, just a hole of vastness

A vastness
That your mind won't be able to comprehend
And you'll be falling, and falling,
in this depression.

But if you are walking too close from this crater,
And it's not just curiously that accompanies you,
Then be prepare to excavate and explore,
Not just the walls but
the depths and the vastness of this crater.

If not, you'll fall and fall,
But all you'll find is nothing.

I'm a selfish creature. A human...
I can't blame myself for that,
But I'm a selfish creature with a choice,
To be selfish or unselfish,
And for my choice, I can blame myself.

One thought can be good
While the other can be bad
And then, those thoughts fight,
Until one of them wins the battle...

But which thought might win
Which thought is it the good one?
Which thought is it the bad one?
How exactly are we to know?

I know both thoughts are fighting,
And not always the good one wins
it's until we see the end effects
That we can know which one was which one.

But is there a way, to actually identify which one is good?
And which one is bad?
How exactly are we to know?

I can think the bad one is good
And similarly,
I can think the good one is bad,
But is it that We have no way of telling one from which?

I know there must be a way,
But the way, I do not know,

I know that having proofs doesn't always
tell if someone is good
Or someone is bad
Because proofs can be made up

But how exactly should I know which one is which?
Though my instinct, or my intuition,
Or my intellect, or through them all?
I'm unsure...

You know it,
I know it,
We all know it,
So what's next?

Do I feel what I write or do I write what I feel? I know that I write what I feel, but somewhere in between the lines, I feel what write, I just feel it to the point that I write what I feel.

Somedays,
I want to scream my soul out
And just be a ghost
Wandering through time

But I'm flesh and bones
(I thank God for that)
who screams and nothing comes out
Not a single sound

For fear to scream too loud
And scare the people in my life
For fear that I might scream too loud
what I'm unsure is right.

I was a student roaming through thoughts,
always getting lost in the alleys
Of people's words,
Their sentences were cities I wanted to visit,
And I did, I visited these cities via my thoughts,

Though My thoughts were the feet that walked me through their cities,
And their cities were the ideas that captivated me with their beauty,
I was amazed at their grandeur, that I became a tourist to capture the monuments of their truths with my own hands, as if these hands held a camera, capable of capturing what others could not see.

But even then, I still could not make an album of the pictures that I took,
my pictures became collages, mixing one with the other, creating a whole new complete passage, or picture I should say, one that everyone could admire with their eyes, but one that wasn't real to the naked eye, nor one that anyone could touch, unless we all worked towards constructing it for ourselves.

This anger
Angers me more
than the anger I felt
while being angered
Yesterday

It's just that this anger in me
Consumes the anger of yesterday
Plus it feeds
Upon the anger of my yesteryears.
It just grows and grows,
While feeding and devouring,
the angers I felt
in my past

It intensifies
yet it digests the leftovers
from my past angers.

It does.

But even worst,
This anger of mine
Never sleeps
It just feeds and grows,
At all times.

It's a glutton, right?

Do you think I'm random
When I speak randomly
About any random subject
That jumps into my mind randomly?

Do you think that I can randomly think
without randomly choosing
what I would say randomly?

Or do you think that I can randomly think
While I randomly choose
What I would say randomly?

Then do whatever boils your beans,
Do not ask me for a ***,
Nor for a stove,
Don't ask me for a flame,
I have all but clearly you want none

Go figure how to boil your beans
on your own

Love, love, love.
You see...
It's a bird flying and flying,
landing then flying
just flying then landing
this bird of love.
It spreads its wings,
It soars.
It flies.
This bird of love.

It's free to come and go,
And goes and comes,
But it never leaves
the skies it soars.

Oh This bird of love,
it soars and soars,
And lands, and flies,
in the skies and grounds,
of this earth
that is my home.

Oh yes, this bird of love
It loves this earth
That is my home.
With no condition
It flies and soars,
Whether warm or cold,
Regardless of the weather
This bird of love
Just loves
This earth
That is my home.

If in order to create, one must destroy,
Then what did God destroyed,
In order to create us?