You're so sweet, I want to carry you around,
Shrink ya, place you in my pocket...
You can whisper little stories to me 'cause you're a great writer,
From my jacket pocket you can get all the inspiration you need!
Now all I have to do is shrink you, get you a little pad of paper and a little pen, oh and then...
You'll be my pocket sized writer..

ink smudges stain
my callused
fingertips.

Hello
Hi
Welcome, it's an invitation to my crooked soul,
To my unwilling heart

You need not know my name,
For names do not explain why I am the way I am,
Why I write the way that I do;

All you need, is a little introduction, to the things that matter -

I love the moon and the stars,
In all their metaphoric beauty,
I live for the love both within and of fiction
But I do not crave to be in love myself,
Loud and shy simultaneously,
I fight with my own stupidity
A writer without a choice,
For without it I am
A crooked soul at best

And suddenly I realized
I'd spent far too much time
Trying to write a poem
As beautiful as her.

I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

At night she talks about you
she goes to sleep thinking about you
how her happiness died with you're relationship
how she can see herself with no one else
at night you're alone, but happy
you go to sleep thinking about your day
and not how you hurt someone to the point where
they want to hurt themselves.

Tener mente de escritor es probablemente una de las más grandes maldiciones que se le puede concebir a una persona.

    Primero; comienzas a cuestionar todo a tu alrededor, no pierdes ni un detalle. Ya no es buscar a tu novia, que vive pasando la esquina. Es despertar; ver que el día está algo nublado. Pensar que las nubes grises te gustan y te causan paz y eso te causa cierta bohemia y te da ganas de escribir algo. Ya no es caminar; es andar. Andar viendo el suelo y pensar: "Mis pasos son lentos... a mi alrededor todo es taciturno. Las nubes, oh, dulces nubes. Dulces pero amargas formas que luego destruirán el cielo y mojaran la arena con su transparente sangre".

   Segundo; no es ver a tu novia esperando en su puerta; es: "Y ahí estaba ella... tan hermosa... tan delicada. Tan irreal que me causaba gozo sólo existir para poder verla a la vuelta de la esquina...".

   Ahora, imaginemos aplicar éste principio mórbido e involuntario a cada aspecto de la vida.
   Tener mente de escritor es probablemente una de las más grandes maldiciones que se le puede concebir a una persona.

Can a poet be an introvert?
Because an introvert am I.
I am outgoing at times,
but mostly I am shy.

Can a poet hide behind the curtain?
Of all things hidden inside,
I get them out furiously on paper,
but in turn to speak I hide.

Can a poet be imperfect?
In the respect of not all things memorized.
Even so, I love every word I write,
and hope to leave you mesmerized.

Can a poet be I?

hands
clasp
grasp
yours, mine or a stranger's
line of life, line of head, line of heart
it is said that the hand is the map, and the heart is the guide
but how come whenever it is that you hold my hand you also hold my heart?
(in your hands)
feeling the strength of your hold
on my heart
and my hands
letting go
of my heart
but please,
not my hands
I need to keep that clasp
and grasp
and hold I have on you
I need to feel your roughness
and clamminess
and softness
between my fingers
yours fit so perfectly
what if I never find another fit?
what if the next fingers are too short, too long, too bristly, too smooth?
I only remember yours
and what if their lines tell too different a story?
what if they crossed an ocean to find me,
or have never picked up a knife,
or have never lost themselves in another?
and I am left holding my own hands
too familiar
when all I yearn for are yours
I should have never let go of yours
even that one morning when you said it was too cold to hold mine
I should have locked yours between mine and assured you that I would make you warm
now I am grabbing for something in the dark,
a phantom limb; your hands
I wish I had clawed up your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder to your neck
and held on
because my hands are empty
nothing I hold bears weight
nothing I touch, feels
nothing I stroke shudders
nothing I scrape bleeds
my hands hold nothing
my lines of mind, head and heart have blurred
I can feel the reverb of my heart's beat as it left my hands and fell into yours
they are bony and frail and stained and drained of colour
what do I do with my hands?

i am a slave of words, i am a slave of pen
i am a slave of books, my heart was stolen  by the words of my thoughts
and stored in my books and used by the pen which i wake up everyday to find that is using my words and hiding them in my books.