the golden dust of books enticed me,
it breathed and blossomed in me,
i forgot what my body looked like without it.
there in front of mirror i was hesitating.
this new look of mine was breathtaking
yet for a moment it felt agitating.
such a show was put on by the ones i adored.
yet what could i ever do?
mixed in system, ruining my reason
pacing my heart and became my identity.
'a poet' is all I'll ever be,
writing, writing, writing
is all i ever did,
ever do and keep on doing,
so if i reduce this writing of mine then it will be no shorter than of me .

the rough and tumble of writing,
always the endeavor to be better,
always the laggard, hardly a braggart,
for you, pop up every anew, and
slapping me with your words,
striking me down with your perceptions
giving me sensations that irregulate
distorting my tremulating^ five senses,
with blows
from without, & stronger from within,
and i pass a thought on my way to
the next volcanic bursting of my chest,

this life of nothing, but reading poetry,
will most definitely **** me sooner,
for the laggard is always the last,
and there is always the inevitable next,
and when my family tells me,
get a life, i smile, for I have already
through 'but poetry,"
lived a thousand lifetimes,
a millennium of emotions,
by
your words,
whose words?

y o u r
    words

                                                    ­                                             nml

Hay noches en las que me pregunto algo,
hay una duda que no deja de asediar mi mente en ciertas madrugadas:
¿mis palabras son capaces de moldear tu corazón
con la forma de mi amor?

Sé que me dijiste que no estás segura
de sentir ese romanticismo que yo siento por ti,
pero si mis palabras no se marchitan para ti,
te pido que me digas
si soy capaz de hacer florecer el romance entre nosotros.

Si esta semilla que planto
en cada palabra que escribí para ti florece
y las noches no son marchitas,
¿aún mis letras tienen un peso significativo
en la balanza de tu corazón?

En esas noches la duda es implacable:
¿sientes algo dentro de ti cuando te digo
que te quiero,
que te adoro,
que te aprecio,
que te extraño,
que te amo?

¿Existe esa ventisca que sacude con fuerza
las ramas de tu corazón?

Por favor, te imploro que me digas
si nuestras almas siguen hablando
el idioma del amor que creamos.

Dame a entender que para ti
mi poesía no son solo palabras vacías,
dime que mis letras son tu pensamiento nocturno,
corazón ardiente…

Siempre serás mi rosa de fuego,
la que deja en cenizas el mío,
cenizas de amor eterno.

In newer, modern-digital ages - it may seem more and more so - brainwashed thoughts are being driven into the wall, and they are being expelled like snot, because the hated counter-argument can also splash back at any time if one is not careful. In newer modern ages, the persistently nauseating flattery can rather give birth to massive ***** than to chemically pure *******, massively praising the law-makers. The given era regularly snaps the ant-men, like an unwanted cigarette ****, saying; they will be just fine - even among themselves -, they will be an ashtray.

Because the newest digital ages, like strings, bind and weave through the lives of simple, melancholy average people, like some everyday, negligible little package, not to fall apart, because the rhythmic intoxication of croaking frogs is clearly audible. Because - I fear - even sincere confidences may have less and less room among merely conscious, unsettled cell-molecules.

- A person would become a collapsed block if he constantly cried on the secret channels of tabloid media about who managed to successfully **** how much? How did he gain weight, who earned more? Maybe sometimes it is better to be consciously present and permanent loneliness trapped within four walls, not disturbed by a smartphone, smart TV, or laptop.

What is the better solution: social loneliness next to someone whose body and mind can still tolerate it, or to consciously chase away and exclude everything and everyone from yourself?! Many useless, yet essential, questions to be decided. In the flight of a kite, one should still catch a few more bold moves before the big leap into the phlegmatic infinity.