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Aug 2014 · 767
Mad poetry
Ricardo Orozco Aug 2014
Imagination
is the prime suspect
of my sheer insanity
Aug 2014 · 1.6k
Pain
Ricardo Orozco Aug 2014
I control my pain
you can let it control you
either way is brave
Aug 2014 · 980
My love if you leave
Ricardo Orozco Aug 2014
All that I'll have is
beautifully scented sheets
and dented pillows
Haiku
Jul 2014 · 369
Where is the love?
Ricardo Orozco Jul 2014
They only listen
when you're born or when you're dead
when there's no words left
Haiku, Sad, Listen, Reality
Jul 2014 · 491
Love hurts
Ricardo Orozco Jul 2014
My fingers chewed up
anticipating your touch
with my damaged skin
Haiku ... sometimes it is too long till I see you
Jul 2014 · 318
Life is but a dream
Ricardo Orozco Jul 2014
We are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.

Missing keys,

Oh!

How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.

Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded books.
The ones "watching every move we make",
The ones not there when we take the wrong step.
Which day will I be allowed to sleep in,
through sun rise and sunset...
through night and day...
Laying forever in my cold bed.

Jagged stars cutting my bleeding brain,
mistaking them for a stairway to heaven.
The soft cumulus haven was too unearthly,
hidden from all to see...
Away from dry earth and mortal bodies.
We turn to man-made bliss; contained in inch-long plastic bubbles,
To fill the great gap between reality and fantasy.

— The End —