Loaded gun, sharp knife.
Have you come to my aid?

Words let me breathe, sentences liberate me,
language is my freedom you won't take that away from me.
Rivers could dry up, sound all become mute,
as long as there is writing my thoughts won't be obscured.

Forever is ephemeral, tricking our mind that joy will never effaced, fooling our thoughts with unsaid promises. You should begin to live the now. Life has stood still for you to come and reach it, but I'm afraid it's starting to give its first steps. Your fear restrains you from the fiction of the always and the possibility of the now.  Afraid of being afraid, frighten of never BEING, of being too much, too little, too open, too shy, too loud. Too many things concerned you and nothing worries you at the same time. While they're boarding the plane, you're unsure to buy the ticket. Those fools may be holding onto a superficial idea but at least they're grabbing something, what can you say you're clinging to? The only eternal concept you cherish is the one of cowardice. When will the stream of feelings running through your veins matter over the importance dedicated to those who can't relate to you? A forever may be childish but a never translates unhappiness.

It is hard to determine where this new route will take me,
I can't see any clear signs that may guide me to safety.
A new chapter I begin, expecting the unknown, I've
read this book before but these pages all have grown.
The wings of the turtle begin to show traces of life, I
hope that the flight it takes doesn't crash like a wild
kite. Entering a path that many have tried to run, I'll go
in just crawling, then I'll walk and perhaps may jump.
I'll have to resist temptation not to run it and smash my bones.

I'm not broken so why are you trying to fix me?
My wings are not fractured so why are you trying to mend them?
My world is not drifting apart so why are you trying to glue it back together?
My body is not injured so why are you determined to heal it?
My thoughts are not scrambled so why are you obsessed with  decoding them?
My love is not wounded so why are you trying to change it?
Stop trying to fix me I'm not broken, I'm just built differently.

You want me to look without seeing,
to see without looking, to laugh
without smiling, to speak without sound,
to breathe without exhaling, to climb
without effort, to walk without movement,
to sleep without closing my eyes, you want
me to live without being.

You find yourself thinking in color. It permeates through every inch of what you know. Thoughts get processed in them and translated by it. Although I favor the one that shines most bright, I barely claim it. I lack of it. In fact, I come to deny it, to exclude it, rather than make it my own.

Lets think through color. Nelson lives in the reflective imposition of it. She strips it down and eats it whole. She hugs its core and stares right at it. She owns it, unlike the string of light I keep refusing.

He, she, they, constructed this. We, you, them, distort it, reshape it, bend it up, and cut it down.

It is the only lineage that connects us all. Dickinson saw the strength of the grass like your mom did and with the vision you do. But, color gets lost in translation. They used Doves to instill fear and swordsmen saw Paper as a sign of truce.

It hurts as well. Obsidian carries pain within. Marks on his back from a remote past, a past that is still dragged to the present. Obscure in its presence. Regarded as biologically distinct. Yet, we now know better, or pretend to.

Blends. Blends in, it merges, fuses, makes new. Transforms. Distorts. She made me see the core once, and it bleeds.

Not the primary but the others, from distant lands on a new canvas, filling in the outlined sketch.

What if my right was your wrong and
your wrong was my right? If we play pretend
words lost their meaning and these sentences
never began. What if you try to listen to my eyes
and feel what I shout, where making sense of my
life it's a comma where you stop move along but
without any doubt.  What if I take your happiness
and live it as my own, I know I've read this essay
but the pages keep going on. If you could realize
that I create my joy, the questions in your book
won't be handle like a toy. What if the lines you
write are backwards because that's all you know
yet one day you're forbidden to express your feelings
and thoughts. If you can't understand why you're
trying to be retrained, why can you tell me to be a
pencil when I've always been a pen?

To the one that might read this line,
I confess I don’t know this rhyme.
Will I ever stop?
Will this verse just drop?
I won’t write this line to be nine.

You lack the conviction you seek,
to be, you will have to search deep,
remember the train is passing you by,
once gone it will never retreat.            
The melody was already played yet
the track list shows no sign of an end.  
Up beat, relaxing, dramatic or smooth
each one will interpret it as they can.                                                      
Your difference is not what is different,
unless you make it yell odd, don't hammer
your brain with thoughts of disdain you're
as ordinary as peas in a pod.                        
You will gain, you will lose, a gain you
deserve a lost that's been bruise.  
Despite of the outcome that you may
endure, remember to never lose you.

I have to be the right words, not offensive nor too liberal.
I have to be the right filter, scanning everything that
I say and purifying all that I hear. I have to be the right pace,
following the rhythm of the world and forgetting I know how
to walk. I have to be the right mood, letting my emotions creep
through the cracks but not fully exposing them to the light.
To be the right chair and sit instead of stand. The rain to
calm the heat, the sun to warm the cold, the moon to shine
at night, the stars to guide you through. I'm supposed to be
so many things, I lost my way to being who I am.

I want to sail away from my life
this life that's yours, you see the
wild in the rain that falls. She, he,
we,us, it, him, her...

You keep telling yourself that it's ok,                
that there's nothing wrong but you            
sound like a whisper and they sound               
like a shout.

I need to grow up, I need to grow up, I need to grow up!
Everyone tells me so and I refuse to listen. I want to grow up,
I want to grow up, I want to grow up! They all do it so smoothly
but I don't know how. I have to grow up, I have to grow up,
I have to grow up! My life and I live in this parallelism, watching
each other run at a different pace. I have to need to want!
Crying old sorrows, watching antique chains, doesn't work anymore.
The have is to break free, the need to for my sanity, the want is to
finally be the grown up I desire.

I just want to say what I *******
mean and feel what I ******* say,
no filters or metaphors no words
in disguise. I just want to *******,
whoever you may be.

Regardless of the money that you have in banks,
despite all the Ferraris and the planes you have,
you're still disappointed with the man you see,
that's because no luxury will ever succeed at
making your life feel like is complete.

Trapped in a world where the weak can't survive
where the voice of the poor can't be heard for afar,
where one's dream falls apart and reaching for it
seems impossible, where the tears of a man can't
resolve any obstacles.

Only thoughts of fright cross your mind all day long,
feeling like your heart has been ripped from your
soul, looking to your side and no friends you can
find, trying to figure out how much longer will all
this last.

Words like humble and sweet are effaced from your
mind, while anguish and affliction become examples
of your daily life, you won't hear the kind remarks
that might be said about you, for you can't appreciate
what your heart is not accustomed to.

18 years you have lived yet your beauty has
faded away, your innocence has been stolen from you
and the're many suspects to blame, there's no point
trying to fix what has what has already been destroyed,
your genial smile was erased and your youthfulness
came to a stop.

There's no mountain you can climb nor a path you
can walk, nor a forty miles ride you can jump in and
go, nor a train you can board or a plane you'd come up
to, that will ever even lead you to accomplish your
dreams and goals.

Searching for a way out, even though out you are,
four dollars is all there's left, to feed the kids pay rent
and try to survive, blindfolded you are, you won't
see what you want, putting your aspirations to vanish
into a thing of the past, why are you simply living
the life that you're told t? why can't you for once
live the life you always desired to?

In a time where the corrupt owns it all and much more,
where a man's state of frenzy is irrelevant even to the poor,
where the lion hunts the deer and its flesh is torn apart, where
words like "finally I did it" are only said by plutocrats.

The mountain was to high for you to climb it all, its height
was to extreme, you fail at going up, there weren't any
guides that showed you how to climb, or give you any tips
at how to safely survive, however there were signs at every
place you looked, which said that at some point a fall
you must endure.

Alone, lonely, dispersed, sola, isolated, estranged, departed, emptied, hollowed, alienated...echoes inside a house that was never a home.

There were two rooms, no, three. One was lived in, one uninhabited and the last one was empty. The third one filled with clutter and failures, hopes that never took flight and goals that wilted. This one was cold. Life can't flourish during winter, this room never bloomed. A room attached to the house but navigating on its own.

Boxed inside a body, chained with crippling thoughts. Walking among many and forever pacing alone. Everything moves so fast. Face down, avoid their eyes, move faster, lower your tone, talk less, less! Don't speak at all. Don't smile, never laugh. Don't make eye contact, that's an invitation. The room will be too crowded if there are stares. Winter hates company, it thrives on solitude.

Watch it again. Create their world, recreate their dialogues, dive into their sphere. Turn the volume louder, read the subtitles. Float away from the room and become their space. Erase. Erase. Erase. Leave no trace of the self. Imagine another life, run someone else's dreams. They speak in riddles, walk away. Create a fort. Be locked away. Now there's a sound, a loud silence. Can it be heard?

It's the scream of isolation announcing its stay.

I wonder. I always wonder. Flickering lights. Auburn skylights. Do you ever think of me? A rush of your presence overtakes my mind. It shocks me and moves me, I can’t make it stop. I want to, but I let it ride. The moments come, they are limited to you, nonetheless, their potency is palpable. What does it look like in there? In that web of lies, of tries and sighs. Hah! It’s possible to find traces inside. Perhaps there’s a moment of me, a brief laughing gesture, a look, a smile.

I keep wondering. If I look at you, do you tremble? My heart runs to my throat when you glance, if only I provoked the same in you. Blue subsides, flashes from above overtake you. Look! Look! They’re there for you. If only you cared to look. Wishing to know
things, all those unknowns you carry.

I can only wonder. Am I there? Somewhere? There’s a little nook right beside your worries, could that be the place you house me in? It’s quiet now. You seldom hear a car rush through. The skies’ glow died out. Sleeping feels impossible. My body needs restoring but my brain is in overdrive. Images flow by and you’re a familiar recipe in their making.

It leaves me to wonder. When do I appear? Nights might not be your demise. Is it during mornings? Adrenaline springs and reaches your mind and boom! There I am.

The sun is beaming. It warms your whole room. Its rays touch your face and you’re up. Continuous wonder I live in. The time our answers aligned, I saw a glimpse of joy in your eyes, it said that in a room full of people your focus was on me, or maybe all your
wonders belong to someone else.

The day flashes by and tints of autumn reflect on your side view mirror. Darkness knocks again. I fall back to enjoy the ever-sparkling lights, wondering if reaching them is more feasible than holding you.

When you comply to pain
You acquiesce to fear
You create pathways of self-pity
And reinforce debilitating tears.

When self-loathing becomes home
And victimization a nurturing place
It creates a false reality
Where hurt is your only pace.

When depressive states get normalized
And they become your daily norm
You find it hard to differentiate
A healthy mind from one constantly torn.

When you romanticize suicide
You masquerade the impact it has
It begins to feel intrinsic to you
Instead of an annihilating mask.

When isolation becomes comfortable
It can feel like a shelter from stress
And never confronting the voices of others
Starts to mute all and any distress.

When pessimism equates practicality
And all lines begin to get blurred
All your measurements of self and normality
Seem like an outcome of a conscious often stirred.

When negativity is your second language
And your self-esteem thrives in callous words
You constantly keep yourself chained
Like a forest with all featherless birds.

When you live your entire life
In an endless loop of anguish and pain
Your self-portrait starts to become an oil painting,
Yet, you forget that you’re the drawing hand.

Remembering what I want to forget. Unable to recall what I need to remember. When did it start? Refusing to ask you because the revelation would make it real. More than it already is. Other pains kept occupying space. It had to wait. Writing it would make it real, trying to forget it becomes harder, there's a record. Is this the root of fear? Afraid of being in a fort not alone but sola. Talks or hints of it. Can't remember, time has a tendency to distort the memories. The motorbikes go by, loud, exhaust, music and maybe plans of it, it's hard to recall. Locked away, innocence dissappearing by the second, or maybe it vanished before that day. When did it start? It's difficult to know. It happened, it didn't feel forced, felt mutual but willingness at five does not seem plausible. Was it that young? Remembering that, it's complicated, you could answer it but forgetfulness gets in the way of asking you, or remembering to ask you slips by. Hard to tell the difference. There was a school day once. Morning it was, the shoes were being tied, memory says that no one else did the tying. Can shoes be tied at five? Can't recall. But being forced to grow up has a way of challenging stages. You said independence was a quality that was shown at five. Where did it go? You asked. It hasn't really, it just shows itself differently. After the shoes were tied, at five there's rejection. Knowledge of wrong and right. Was it really that young? Hard to believe it could be. After that there's no more recollection. Was it before innocence started to die or after? I can't recall and I'm not sure I really want to.

I want to be selfish for once, to get drunk from my needs
and soak on my wants. To get high from My Love and
wrapped up on my life.

I want to be greedy at last, to drown on self love and
asphyxiate on my laughs. To be exhausted from my
joys and depleted from good vibes.

I want to be narrow minded tonight, to feel voiceless
from speaking up and drained for being who I am.

I need to be ego centered and obliterate all my flaws,
to eliminate all the stares and feel I'm above them all.
It's time to be selfish and begin to live for me, they all
have their lives on play while mine's stuck on repeat.

The watch sits on the desk, it’s racing through time.
The footsteps upstairs from one room to the next.
The echoes of the cars outside as they go to and from,
these fill in the void you create.
A sudden loud scream. The slam on the door.
The phone vibrates. A voice. They break away the spell.
My heartbeat, the wind against the leaves. A song in the distant,
and puff! I no longer feel your stance.
Emptiness gets polluted, then your absence is noted.
Nothingness comes when things retreat. You flourish when interrupted.
As the watch continues its beat, I feel closer to you. After that, the
Door opens, she’s home and now you’ve gone away.

Moments. I'm built up by moments. They surround me, shape me, create and recreate who I've become. A rainy day. The trip. One class. Many hours badly spent. But these don't make it into the frame.

Your blame. The rage. My guilt. These are the intances that outline my life. Micro moments. You see, tiny ones that flee. They flash before I can fully understand or become aware of their existence. On their own they stand as harmless, ineffective, deficient. Their accumulation is what creates the pain. They made me. I allowed them to be fleeting to deflect the hurt they flashed because I didn't want to bother. It was easier to let them pile up. But now they are clear, readable, traceable and they've lead me here to this moment, to that comma and this period. Moments that raised my walls and alarmed my defences.

So many little moments that build up the rage.

She's the quiet one, who
never stands out the chick
who'll rather write a poem
than speak to a crowd.

The one nobody notices
when she walks down the
hall, the girl who's voice is
unknown but her mind's
full of thoughts.

She's the introvert, the girl
in disguise, the one who
builds up walls so her
life won't collapse.

The one whose tough
exterior in reality is
full of cracks.

She's a timid soul, a
daydreamer at heart,
creating the ideal future
while she tries to
forget her past.

The person who tells
her pains to a stranger
who asks, but can't
have a conversation
with those that are
by her side.

She's your classmate,
she's your sister and
friend, she's your
cousin and niece, she's
your aunt, she's your tale.

she's the girl that stares
back when you glance
at the lake, the one
no one knows, she is I,
she is her.

I yearn for the one I've never met .
I miss you without having seen your face.
I long for your voice, which my ears have
never heard. All I see are stares but I can't see
your eyes. Your smell is my favorite scent,
one I wish I could recall. You're a petal and
Christmas in may. A song I listen to but that
hasn't been written. You are a walk by the
beach which pavement is being built.

People have the capability of changing you.
Of reinventing who you are, thought you were or wished to be.
A noble, caring person can shift to the most obscured path because of someone else. He can isolate you, even from yourself, make you create frontiers. Separate the real you from the version you've created for protection. They help build your demons and perfect your fears.
She takes your doubts and transforms them into shame.
A person can grab your hopes and smear it all over the place, unknowing that your heart shatters along the way.
Perhaps they have a hint that you are suffering but they keep tearing you down anyway. You see, many times you let that happen.
You let them beat you to exhaustion. You remain still. It's like someone is beating you up hit after hit, nonstop, yet you're untied.
You could fight back and at least attempt to defend yourself but
instead you let them punish you. You let the he. And her. And they.
Destroy the you. That YOU that you've worked so hard to come to grasps to, I simply see vanishing away, because of them.

A wall made of bricks, a field they call Hopes,
the structure between certainty and distance goals.

Ms. Dawn and Sir Dim see one way to get across,
climb over the obstacle at any possible cost.

All attach to the wall and want to rise up as well,
the common mindset is: keep moving people don't dwell.

Seeing all the commotion one person stares at the ground,
planning to dig a hole to discover the unforeseen town.

At the sight of the differ path the digger took on his own
all started to direct to him with a superiority tone.

The man had but one answer to the judgement of them all:
why would I climb a wall when I can just dig a hole?