mi mama tenia un traje azul
mi padre se lo arrebato
mi hermano iba a vivir
pero mi tía lo ahogo
esto del alcohol
el gritaba a pecho abierto
lo normal no es normal
hoy no mas comparación
¿miedo?
solo el viejo dolor
entre teclas y una que otra
pequeña negra aparición
desconexión
i am not sure if i am done
a ver a ver
vamos a hacerlo mecánico
en en en y en español no inglés
mecánico y a ver que nos trae
tal vez solo disgusto
el sin-sazón sabor
del desamor (pero como si yo supiera que es… vanidad)
mas que eso, es el sabor de la desaprobación
la falta de convicción
porque así fuese
que importa el exterior?
estaba basada básicamente
en la contemplación
se refleja el enojo de las autoridades
que aun siendo autonombradas
se les ha otorgado el derecho
de la participación
vanidad
anyhow anyway, anyways!
será la música
será el café?
aunque todo sea azul
en marrón, yo lo transforme
porque? que risa, y ahora
a curarse de la ridiculez
implicada en la histeria
de una prematura vejez
a ‘mistake’ puede ser
pues que se le va a hacer?
espero nada mas no estar llena
de eso que se llama
de manera internacional: selfishness...
Debility infuses days
Discolored morality
Climbing the
Clenched soul
At nights
Of my lower mind
My inferior soul
My poorer core
Nonetheless
lacking fineness
revealing my own self
A weakness-full-of face
Not caring enough
For no one
certainly not for one self
Judging lefts & rights
Have I become?
undisciplined soul
makes me carry
this non-glorious self every step
ignorance violence
faults
if i knew my own definitions of right and wrong
that could help
confused although
can't see the light
or don't know what is light for myself
but I don’t
when the dark spots started to grow
when did these crooked principles
were plotted?
Was it on my bringing up?
On the traces of a damaged dna
I call upon
Since doubt on my own
Believing am mistaken
Seems the only way
To a path of humility
And interior peace
That I, since born I long for
Poor of soul
Weak and mean
Is not among the human race
i undergo low for them
feel this day
everybody seems more radiant
too valuable (in a righteous sort of way)
to be my friend
between 4 walls of coldness
me alone to cure my own miserable soul
seems to be the way
the self inflicted bounds
of a lower woman as I am today….
"As for me, all I know is that I know nothing."
Socrates
7.35am
she wakes up
the corner of her eye glimpses a reflection on the living room’s old mirror
dry lifeless hair
wrinkles around the eyes, not deep yet not subtle, marked as the wounds on her gentleness once
piebald skin
a shrug of bitterness she wears this morning, instead of a smile
a bent back hides her body, her breasts
what repulsive view! how ugly i am!
but of course i am alone, she retorts
how could any man like me? whispers to herself
self pity, self fault
her unattractiveness blamed, long cause of lonesomeness
the same mirror for a second time in the day
distracted, all the errands a busy day
walking by the mirror fast wondering if she could escape the mirror’s old manias
his tendencies to all reflect
yet she stops all at once
not anymore afraid of it
the sight is so different now!
her hair after a day of its own humectation, shines & falls flawlessly on her forehead
the way that he used to like it
when he was close long ago, one day
it even smells fine!
the wrinkles seem less deep now
long lashes lustrous & lengthy soulful stare, bringing out the deep color of her eyes
the walk & little sun brought out an unexpected pretty blush to her face
now she smiles and her striking white teeth fill the room with a different light
a deep breathe fixes her posture
she is not in such a bad shape after all, at least for her age, she likes her breasts!
but i alone in the house now, as always,
she cries, and no-one to share no one to stare her new found beauty or to divide the caresses
with this unique moment of hers
no other than her lonely reflection on that mirror
he is never besides her
upset, throw to the mirror a blanket
she beautiful now not ugly like some hours before
yet lonely still
she goes and cries unaided on her bed, again, blameworthy of being always just…
herself
beautiful or ugly, a woman always blames herself for her loneliness…
Then, I am finding authors that might fit and soothe my mad person (mad as in crazy, deranged, or lacking restraint or reason, or foolish, but NOT as in angry), authors that dedicate their lives and sensitiveness to write thoughts, legends, stories on the humane splendor and also on its horrible complications, for us one day to find and read and embrace. Authors who wrote marvelous words in English that might ensemble with my sight of life and sense. Authors who wrote a word or two that might bring me back to my own personal corner, where there are no big plans nor big treasures but the pleasure of the beauty on nothingness, on the little details of every day, those details that i can depend on: on teas, coffee, sounds of birds, noisy guitar feedbacks, one or two flowers appearing and trees that become older, and the art of my friends that is always shinning.
