el trauma de mi vida es
el carnet de coche.
¿os sonará mucho esa frase, verdad?

cuantas mas veces lo intente,
mas veces recaigo
en la monotonía del fracaso.

no sirvo no sirvo
no sirvo no sirvo

no quiero un ramo,
no quiero un ramo lleno de flores,
no quiero algo efímero,
no duradero....

quiero que construyamos juntos
jardines llenos de adornos,
estanterías, muebles y cuadros,
objetos por todos lados.

patios llenos de
geranios, begonias,
margaritas, buganvillas,
rosas y hortensias.

como los patios de córdoba,
llenos de esplendor y armonía
se juntan los cordobeses
para celebrar las grandes tradiciones.

con el corazón acelerado,
no es una opción el frenado,
ya que ha empezado,
este loco amor.

llena de dudas y miedos,
en este autobús,
yo te deseo y espero.

tu abrazo me hará sentir viva,
derretida por tus caricias.

ni en diez mil vidas
conseguiré la paz.

es una tormenta
que me hace sentir insegura
por culpa de la luz de otras personas.

y realmente no son las culpables,
la culpable soy yo
por tener esta mente,

tan psicópata,
tan muerta.

i wonder if the attachment and obsession i had with the person
i dated for two years was because of the loneliness i felt being with my family.
if i felt full and secure with my mother would i have been with that person?

what makes a poet be a poet?
can any of us be poets?
does it really matter to be an expert?
all of us have something to write,
something that we have to experiment.
put it down on a paper.
no matter if you are bad or good,
for me poetry consists of words of love
of your holy life.

i hate the process of getting to know each other,
if you loved me
you would know
that you want to be with me.
you are simply playing,
playing with the choices.
i’m not a option,
i am free.

even though you want to give me all of you,
i can't give you nothing from me.
you are too smart for this sick girl.

the soul doesn't vibrate with just anyone,
so how in 6 months you can say that you
love and care for another person.
it is ridiculous how men
outgrow the one who was their love
for someone else.
short period of time,
no poem,
writing my pain.

i feel that i learn a lot with you,
but you don’t learn anything with me.
am i so boring?
am i so unintelligent?
am i so introverted?
am i so exhausting?
am i so dumb?

if i asked someone to say something nice about me,
they probably wouldn't say anything.
silence.

monday, 21st april,
not a day to stay chill,
the pope is not alive.
what a time to be alive,
not good vibes,
just sadness in our eyes.

i am feeling right with you,
but the end is near the door.
i do not want to finish never,
i want you forever.
you are my muse,
how embarrasing is this,
writing for someone,
who may not love me.

i probably think about him more
than he thinks in general.
i have an obsession with you

my biggest fear is not to be able to write,
write for whom?
the depression is over me.
i can not trust them, false cries,
false rhymes, false sights.
if he leaves me alone,
my heart brokes,
tired of the road to love.
i just want to write a poem,
only for me and you.

nobody understands,
nobody understands,
the loneliness of those
who are praying for warm clothes,
who are them?
just God knows.
the terrible pain they are suffering,
only praying can help them.