In 24 Hours...

While the rain pours

empty, wet street We were under a robust tree. An umbrella made of leaves

Silver-gray sky Waiting for the storm to pass by It was in vain, but we had to try.

Being close to each other We start to share our warm Our lips are now in touch.

The storm may stop But ours has just begun. Time will tell if everything has a point.

No habría llegado a los 50 «Me gusta» sin vuestra ayuda. ¡Gracias por este sueño!

So cool! I can't believe I've reach 50 likes!! Way more likes that I was hoping for!!

Typical old book cover : blank

Well... what about the first page? Also blank

Ok, ok let's see the book spine: Name of the author who I don't know (sometimes it's Russian)

That doesn't tell me anything, I shall see the back cover: blank

I'm loosing it! Maybe the last page has an index: nope.

Ok, last try second page of the book: title

But... but what's the book about? I'm in a hurry!!

The calm before the storm.

Waiting in vain, bound to a chair.

Is it me? or the walls are now green?

Why do dreams taste sweet?

Today is a new day, but I feel the same.

I try to run, but my legs just walk.

Why can't I write? Whom must I pray?

"She walked along the beach,

A small breeze made her dress swing.

She was alone, under the morning glow.

She was waiting for her friend to come."

What shall I write? Which ink should I use?

I weep for I don't know.

I don't want to, but I need to punch the wall.

"Until an aparition came,

in the form of a yellow grand hotel.

A majestic sight stood erect over the waves.

Hypnotic, as if the hotel were calling her name."

I sight in frustation; I can't wait.

Maybe tomorrow I'll finish a play.

But today, it's difficult for me to rest.

¡25 publicaciones!

I've never thought I would write so much 😅

I hate those summer nights

Such hardship is to write

When you have a knife embedded in your spine,

The bones passed the sentence this morning.

Myself is gone; no more soul coupling.

Waiting in the bedroom alone

A hot, wet night full of scars

Keep away from his poison; no more trouble.

While in bed, sweating, puking bile

All my life, the bones said in a grave tone.

I was submerged in the bitter black woe

A miracle of the agonizing fate

My deep cuts were in vain.

Ever since that November evening

I feel my open wounds becoming blue.

Once you notice it, you can't stop the hum.

And I should hold my puke whole.

How on earth might I change?

For I only knew pain.

The bones said I possessed the tools.

That I must try and always carry on

The happy word of the day would be book.

Orange crescent moon

My dear friend is near.

But it is so far away.

I saw her last night.

By the side of the road.

How many years have passed?

How many tears had I wept?

No matter what choice I make,

I forgot to pray.

How much does the guilt weigh?

How much time passed? Or I ate.

Now she's a shadow of herself.

While a hole grows larger in my chest.

I want to sleep by her side.

Hiding from undefined mistakes,

For once, to feel rested and well.

Again, I say, so fair, lady.

Eyes as blue as the sky,

With a charming, big smile,

Her red lips against a skin so pale.

I should forgive everyone.

Even those who broke my entrails

Because God is looking up there.

While the moon is my only friend.

When it rains

I write when it rains. As if all my pains are washing away. When such a dark miracle shakes the window panes,

Only the taste of his blood makes sense. It allows me to be back in reality, past the tense darkness. While his feeble body lays comfortably on my bed.

Or something like that alone, I would pen aloof. While listening, the rain drops fall from the roof. I wonder if the clouds can see me now; surely they will send proof.

My face is blank, and thousands My inner voice is morphing into the same I shift my body, not my shame.

If only I could be relaxed, free of judgment. While water drips from the firmament Thinking of how to avoid my permanent fate

The only leak I have is predictably in my heart. stepping on puddles of my own hope, crying aloud. I have no option but to follow my own white cloud.

Waiting for a Car

Waiting for a car. Cold street night, Looking at how people talk, Dancing clowns in the park.

Adults are drinking in the warm bar. Delicious displays are full of pie. Black, dry coffee is steaming from the cups. While my bones are crying mad.

Now clouds are stealing the stars. I almost felt a presence touching my arm. The vehicle is here, and the doors are ajar. A pleasant hug inside while the rain pours down the night.

She used to love the sea

Chasing forgotten dreams,

Taking that silver train

To that faraway place.

I just pray for a nice drink.

The ticket man stops my concetration,

Asks me a simple question,

Hands me a moldy piece of paper,

And says 'See you later!'

The infinite blue sea is the view.

What secret such clear water hold?

While on it's surface, seagulls strew,

And by the coast, people stroll.

The unforgiving train carries on.

Everyone is anxious to arrive.

I have no worries; it's better to be surprised.

At least the brezee is cold.

A thunder breaks the scene.

No more wind, only fear.

Everyone runs, but the train keeps its march.

I do not fret, for I posses a larch.

Now the ocean is noxious ink,

Rough waves whip the sharp rocks,

They flew away, in a blink.

The birds are being eating by hacks.

He's back, the twisted deadman.

He tries to grab my back.

But I stab him with the larch,

Just before burning away, it laughs.

I cry on my seat,

The train keeps moving straight.

I thank her, her last message, in old paper.

I can still hear the bell.

The Jorney will not end.

Neither my restless rage.

I shall never forgive.

How they stole her face.

The train by the sea,

It's carrying me closer to Titania.

The Empress of the fay,

She who put my little sister in the grave.