My Kittens Belly Is Saggy

This sadness that has no root, shadow or echo in the mountains, words are born. Stubborn, deaf, dumb ... loving feelings are superfluous suffering. Today I am sad, yes ... infinite sadness ... those which are not calculated because they seem to be endless ... Of those that start the vertebrae one by one, and use them to make a necklace or a xylophone. Sadness that bleeds, and bleeds slowly ... Sadness has no origin, reason ... perhaps created by the absence beginning to be felt when the leaves of offshore stained sidewalks. Or maybe created by being around people, laughter ... hugs ... and do not have time to find heartbreaking loneliness alone against a cliff. I do not know, just know I'm sad and at times (like now) I feel like sinking my face in her hands white and cold, and lie to mourn inconsolably, as if no time had passed and still be a girl. I also feel like running and hug my grandmother, and curl up in the folds of his Bluz ... and here a small tip root of the problem: it is not, and will not be more, neither she nor her perfume, or color your Bluz or large, soft hands. And now I feel even sadder.
And I mourn, I untie the knots I made in my throat, but I do not, because I know it is fleeting ... And that morning when you wake, you may recall with smiles the small state of depression, caused perhaps because a cricket did not sing.
Yes, well, that will be tomorrow. Now is now and I have to solve this bipolarity that cross my feelings. Could it be the uncertainty, the environment and the cowardice, the cause of this? Will the joys of home that have not bloomed this summer? Will the moon last night was naked and full? Will the soap opera that generates my imagination not think that I have no guts to cum, hold you and say I love you just for me?
Today I am sad and I can not calm this sinking sea of \u200b\u200bsmiles in the inexplicable.

Statistics Of Heat Strokes

... "The poem that I say, do not deserve. Fear of being two way mirror, someone in my sleep, I eat and drink me '...

Pizarnik, "Tree of Diana"

It is impossible (at this stage of the game, life, and so into the night) to deny you've taken possession of much of me. I write without thinking and your face ... closing his eyes, blurring my vision, I see it drawn perfectly in the back of my eyes, over the ears, temple, forehead and above the scalp. Arguably, being open and honest in the habit of writing and because externalize me pleasure to have known that ... because despite knowing the outcome of those words, I find this story as fascinating as your smile. And they (the words) are piled up in my mouth wanting to come to light, and I feel an irresistible arcade and a desire vomiting my metaphors that go beyond tolerance and human endurance. I get out of bed to cure my disease (of poets and madmen ... of madmen poets and mine ... damn poet des-balanced dissemination!) And the tip about the role imagination and technological . What crime have you, the readers and fellow blessed poems, that the rainbow is brighter these days?, What fault is that today moon type nonsense, and who has lost (in fact) reasoning from I met him?. I think both answers are: None. But there is no choice: kill the love or die trying to be happy.

Bethlehem

Small Round Black Circle/lcd Tv

How cool are their bodies. What are their voices silenced. That freezes your smile ... How far are their remains? Under what moon were tortured? Who smelled her burning flesh, pink ... ? Who saw their faces beaten? Who paid attention to her eyes sad and scared? Who heard their cries? What God answered his prayers? Who heard her sobbing? The

missing.

many motherfuckers murdered their ideas. How often dipped their heads in those stinking toilets, to get phone numbers and addresses to continue to destroy lives? How many damn cavemen believed that silenced an entire people? How many times per minute, mothers reproach the god of those who believe the life of your child?

The missing ...

-

For them.

For those who are no ...

For those who were censored for life.

For the 30,000 who disappeared during the military dictatorship.

By Jorge Julio Lopez vanished in the middle of "democracy"
For the children of this age, they deserve a better country.

For our children to come in the morning.

For the sunsets they could not see.

For the smiles that could not give.

For the words that could not scream.

For ourselves ... Not to be blemishes or a piece of mold on the wall.

To lead by example.

order to learn from history.

To avoid tripping over the same stone ...

not allow ourselves to operate as a puppet show.

to be thinking beings.

We have thousands of reasons to wake up ... For revival of this general political indifference and start acting with a conscience. Revive the 30,001 missing in our actions ... that forgetting does not win in our memory. That those who govern us know NOT FORGET.

Mothers, mothers of pain ... In memory of their children.

Chicken Pox Shower Okay

Viral Throat Pain Blog

One more, just one. Daal ...

I like that I let life upside down. They pull all the books on my shelf and I was obliged to order otherwise, without rules without a model. I like to face life with a smile, planning the day and wanting to see the sun.

not want to think you love me, and yet not able to do otherwise. I love ... Knowing that I own my actions and my own, and yet find that I'm losing a monopoly on my conscience because of what little they hold your name.

Feeling crazy and yet so rope. Feel free and dam of my own body. Feeling sorry, no more.

Hypnotized Korea Movie

appears when you least expect.
warm feelings at the sight. As an eternal spring, as a bitter mate under a weeping willow that surrounds us ... like life.
Gradually permeates me. woke up one morning with her scent on my skin and my hands still feel the soft scratches on his back.
I keep in my fist thousands of strokes made and done, thousands of words rioting that someday will be poems and some dreams which are to shine ...

Do not be afraid solves the time that men can not.
Let him decide what we do not know ... do you know if the wake under the foot of a mountain, together ... Or if you sleep in separate sunsets in the next flood.


Now I stare.
Your smile melts the raindrops, and becomes small bright patches that might be detached from the dress of a great lady of the night. Or maybe you are just a Limíade dust that was left sad and overwhelmed by the last beat boredom.
But I look at all time.
Your laughter is the perfect proof that men need to know that we are alive. Your laughter is the magic that need my hands to write forever.

Your laughter ...