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It is true, I am a prisoner to my body.
My anxiety forever chained; inside me.
The soul imprisoned to damnation of my own creation.
I am limited,
  I write poems of sorrow,
poems of death,
poems of love; past not present
imprisoned to this absurd body and mind,
    of which there is no escape,
         imprisoned from birth to the grave.
-limited

There was always
A part of me
That wanted to make
A getaway from reality
And experience the magic
In the greatest galaxies

There was always
A part of me
That longed to create
Splendacious poetry
That resonated with society
Find great signification
In my terminology

There was always
A part of me
That wished to leave
A legacy behind
To highly inspire others
To be the greatest success they could be

A caged bird sings,
not to entertain
but in the hope
that its call
will be answered
by a familiar tune.

To the north: Can you hear me?
To the east: I am listening.
To the south: Are you there?
To the west: Until tomorrow.

Some magic runs between the golden hours of 3 to 5...
Everything is calm...it feels divine
A time...I meet myself...
My place...hates the presence of light
But the awfully stubborn sunlight sneaks in secretly
through the thick curtains...
lighting up...parts of my dark room
And there I am laying on my bed...
I feel so complete, with my soul in high spirits...
Old songs playing on the radio...can be heard.

It's that serene part of the day...I live for
The whole house is in deep slumber...
As I dance through the hallways...celebrating my afternoons
The seasons change...but the loyalty of these afternoons surprise me...
constant...from the day we met .

The hot summer afternoons...drown me in siestas
jumping like a dolphin from one dream to another.
There is something about the stormy rainy afternoons that makes me feel over whelmed...
bathing me in memories of someone I've never met.
The autumn afternoons see me fickle
As I lose myself completely...for a new change.
The darkness of my soul rises during the winter afternoons...
As I dance through them with my demons.
Vintage melodies fill the fragrant air of spring afternoons
as my camera captures Nadar's smile under the big white clouds.

The silence of these afternoons...rests like roses in my soul...
Only for them to wither...in the harsh evenings.