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.