the days i think about you .....

the days i do, everything is still grey..call me dead. hopelessly romantic in lonely lands... i don't wanna clean my home, i chain smoke writing all day, ashes falling all over me..i wanna lay in deep bathtub, drunken me with music as loud as my thinking goes. i know you do not have the green eyes.. but i dream of it anyway. i don't think i am in love . i am thirsty, hungry .. i stand inside on a rock trying to see further, but all i see is colors dead of an autumn falling away. one weekend and you dared to leave me enough fragments to torture me in perfect play, we are sweeter then a crosswords puzzles.. i've found caveman writing about love in language so old i took a night time to recover their feelings... but love is immortal, has been and wil be.. i am not writing a protest but an act of life and i'd kill for it to be
true.

too many days where i hide inside, no fear only too lame to face the cold .. but you know i would run in the snow to see how it feels to see you again. i cannot even send you all the words i know too well talking in love's proses, you want none of this bullshit, you want verses of reality.. and i see fairy dressed in black with bloody eyes, visiting my bed every night i tried to sleep. you belong there, there is far for a broken me... like money have ever stopped me , i know better then that .
too much time inside and i see fog, but i like the word mist ... cloud in my goddamn windows. no skylight.. no more of the moon reflecting in my eyes. no more shooting star only cloud and if they could be black, everything but grey ... soon my eyes i will have to paint them black. do you have a clue how much i wanna run away with you.
where i do not care, i wish you would ask me like no one do these things anymore.. head shots.. and fuck know si am good at that . but i am tired of choosing , even thinking about where to go, where to belong. i belong with someone better then somethings, 25 years with myself, 'es una vita' but they say life goes longer then that. somewhen someone forgot to teach me of individuality, then i learn better of duality, battling my own self is over, i redeem, and no regrets , i still do wrong and i still do good. but i am blase in too many days. what about this eternal coffee, where i could smoke for a quarter life and never choke. i feed myself from th elook in your eyes.. and i breathe low whenever you feel down, and i hold my breath whenever you cry too much, scared of i could dye, you laugh and whisper the tears are over. i smile.

i smile

i still smile.. i do.. you, beautiful ghost to keep me awake even when i, alone needing to hide under layers to keep me warm. but i want cold, my blood is boiling, but reaches my heart , the skin is lacking .. my ears cold.. no wind. waterfall.. inside. but i want it to poor all over the streets i need to go through if i could see you . you are alive. i am too scared of being haunted again to let you go. i won't. if you are scared then i will be too...

SERENADE


by Edgar Allan Poe
(1850)

So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list,- so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.

serenade is the word i adore.

the night is falling, i listen to many serenade, but i am not ready for my own.

i want to taste the paradise of lost soul, those that fills up the holes. but i have to resist and feel the holes empty... i fear emptyness more then i fear death.
Anais Nin says' i live in a beautiful prison which i can only escape by writing''
i would survive in jail. i am obsess with the images of jail these days, do i feel like a criminal. at 16 yrs old i use to say i wanted to be a serial lover.. therefore love is much more killer then any men could ever harakiri is own self.
love to red, red to the color of blood . bleeding to death. but it is perhaps the wrong color, cuz your life is worthless is you leave it without loving and loving first. then le vent l'emportera, au loin where only heart can see. blind you must be if you forget how little you are . and the ocean could have swallowed you many times. you are none of a survivor, you are forgiven, that's al , that's it for now...

i am aware today
so much i look so serious
when i read you , i smile.
i think it's beautiful
( i know you know )
we study. i am a tender( fragile) subject and you are art i havn't met . yet.
we are unbreakable fragile.