My words never come out exactly how i intend them
It's like i’m speaking simultaneously in another dimension
I can’t convey the feelings that are circulating
The sounds and images remain in constant fluctuation
I would love to recreate or make art out of vinegar and sangria
To turn these sounds into spiraling images and metaphors
More splendid than the Basílica de la Sagrada Família
But instead my words become islands of the Galapagos
With nothing tangible to bridge the empty spaces with