I am in a black room
the smell of dust dominates the area
the air is still
BANG!
The door slams open
I do not know what or whom it was
the air becomes thicker
almost suffocating
the hostility stabs into your flesh
almost ripping it off the bone
a high pitched scream fills the room
ears ringing
THUD!
it becomes silent
BANG!
The door slams shut
There is blood
it lays in pools on the hard chestnut floorboards
a body lays in the middle of the room
it's as cold as ice
and as blue as the salty ocean

I then began to grow numb
my body grows icy
I am now laying there where this mysterious cadaver once laid
I am content

Surrounded by the crisp clean air
The Earth came up and surrounded me like a blanket
Leaves gathered around me
forming a cacoon
I slowly began to sink into the damp soil
but I did not get consumed by the planet's fiery core
I laid encassed
by the bright green leaves
the smell of the earthy soil
I was then pure

I Believe
While poor in spirit
Argues fiercely
About the novel,
The ballad,
Or elections

While mismatched souls
Discusses
About the fight of the night,
The soccer match, or
The race on Sunday


While ******* with
"Class"
drank cross-legged
And open necklines

While intellectuals
Holding coffee with the pinky,
Influenced voters,
Or explained ideas

As the world be sad
Diving standards,
My friends lost their pose.
After all,
They just wanted
Have fun.

And
They danced,
They shouted,
Discussed,
And they laughed.
They laughed that bunch of problems,
Because they knew that
Smiles, was the best medicine
In the absence of solutions.

To fix this,
Felt disgust of those vile beings,
The go through life
Unassuming.
Or maybe,
feel only
Annihilating a pity.
It was weird, but
At the same time,
It made sense.

The world still can be saved
For a few.
You can not believe,
Nietzsche can not believe,
God can not believe,
But I believe.

I'm a broken heart
That is reconstructed every morning
So the night,
Can break it once again.

I am a broken heart,
Who prefers to be seen
As a fragile object,
Than be hardened as the cities.

I am a broken heart
With all necessary support
To be rebuilt
With its new scars.

I am a throbbing and alive heart party,
That can still break several times,
And prove that
After all,

Love exists.

That story
Could have changed my life
But, I know that ever
I will have memories of her again.

Because the writers are like that
And the ideas are like that.
If you do not have a keyboard,
Or a piece of paper
At the right time
At the right place,
They fly,
Fly like napkins in a
Thunderstorm.

And if successful,
Some fragment of what is left,
Will surely be cut in pieces,
Incomplete,
Whitout beginning,
Without end.
Because that moments, yes,
They are unique.

So, like that
Go the ideas;
The moments;
The time;
The possibilities;
And the napkins.

She said me it was Latin,
But carrying the whole world on your shoulders
She was carrying a colorful backpack;
And her blon curls,
Which shone in consistency with the sun.

She told me she loves come and go,
Ana that was why
She run all the world:
To be an embodiment of love.

Could speak spanish,
Rolled in English,
And had ease in Portuguese.

"I know the languages, -
She said.
It was a little thin,
But her curves,
They you can’t ignore.

Her freckles made a unique style;
His mouth exuded a charm
When it comes to expressing themselves,
And she kisses anyone
As if in love.

I wanted to bring she home
With me.
To have a home, and
All those things
But she was like love
Had to come and go there.
That’s why,
I Could only bring she
Into my chest.
And since the,
She lives
In two
Distinguished
Places.

My poetry gets really dark when I'm hurting.
My poetry gets bubbly when my love-life starts to pick up.
My poetry gets short when I am broken.
My poetry gets weird when I am tired. Like, REALLY weird...
My poetry gets violent when I am angry. As in FREAKING violent.
My poetry gets dumb when I am bored.
but all of the words I write are made of genuine feelings