feeling is this mania saturated
waking up with all the dreams still clinging to the eyelids.
rigorous and that thing is hard to face the light of day with his animal over,
Rise as knowing everything and stay gone until you remember the body.
life is just, the liturgies that do not, the breath that does not hide,
The smell of sex with a stale taste and a rain shower as he stayed in the house forever.
is feeling alone, their breakfast, watching the mess and know that there is no work,
the stairs as if the heavens above be foolish thinking and accommodate sad poems.
is reading Heidegger, Trakl, any angel plucking the last feather wings;
suffered by them or by the word that never comes, know that is not the name nor the purpose for which much was expected.
is found to be walking on all fours, insisting on the existence
being a bag of doubts that tries to move with all the weight of a grudge that won the game.
hobby is the poet, I know, feeling that fate is both to death,
To live and spend and spend anything to be empty, and suddenly, lie all over the world to write a lament
And then, out like a ghost to seek solitude hanging from another branch of the days.
It feel strange, with a soul claiming the sky and pushing around like a drunkard;
Denying color lost between the desire, the girl that you pulled the affection between her lips
and suffering because they can not give salvation to have you happy in his arms.
rumination is known crazy shit in between the bones;
despising eyes, simple games, things that jump to a
wanting to give enthusiasm to the voice that gave a chance to live.
is think of you when your memory I fall over, think about your distance and your pain pierced
And knowing you lost something so full of knife given birth in the shade.
is knowing I am with this rock-ray to throw it all to crumble heaven is waiting for the noon
without music, with a spasm in the skin that begins to despise,
That seriously punished me for forgetting the child was
and playing with an imaginary monster that now only serves to mourn in corners.
is this thing of shame in your arms, looking at you
fixed star could not show that I put out the eyes.
is get to the afternoon with a lost bird, chirping with a verse from the bones, overshadowing some wrinkle
I said uncertain
friends that were going without even raising his hand to say goodbye to the look,
who preferred the oblivion and leave me alone for so sharply
crazed man who could not recognize their love and smile.
is still not know what time it was me who just said instead of closing the door
dusk until bleeding poems.
this hobby is especially
to seek the night and throw the body into delirium.
is always the desire to get closer to the mirror to find the cynical.
is this pain to go back to bed with the ruins
And know that everything was tested with the same sort of blood that came
night with the withered heart.
is reading a verse and know that at least it is only to warn others of danger;
dream is the very essence of a poem and not write, not trying,
not feel mine, believe it is another and respect the writing I do not deserve my lips.
is just this, the sleepless nights, dark circles, remorse crushing a pillow that does not know,
The despair of not supporting the black with pupils insist on a fire.
clock is rocking a nuisance chest lying in the middle choked with anguish, sadness
is, just that,
A sadness knowing that all helped me to get bored
and I were just a few verses
,
for naming you sleep and finally get to sleep.
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