She used to be alive
Not hanging on by a thread
Not worrying if she’d survive
She was living life instead
Then the lights went out
And the fears began to shout
And she sat in the dark with no desire to face another day
Out of place, out of grace
She retraced all the ways she had failed
Then she thought why waste another day?
There’s nothing left to say
Nothing left but today
Plans already underway
But there must be a reason to stay

A time cuando todo el surfimiento ceases to exist,
Donde dolor es just a dream,
Y el amor is truly free and truly felt,
When we are hecho completo en Christo.
Mañana,
Cuando tenemos time to finally stop and actually ask each other,
Cómo estás haciendo?
When we have el tiempo a cocinar,
And to finally have a meal together.
Hasta Mañana.

I got bunches of hope,
full of honey and milk,
rooted to your *****,
dressed in a pinkish silk,
It is craving your babyface,
wandering around your manhood,
invoking copious amounts of grace,
In order to devour as much charm as it can,
gently sluicing sediments from your weary right palm,
massaging it twice and coating it with fragrant balm.

There, In the centre of our old black and white patio,
I am Injuring the rushing longing inside my ruins.
that dares to leap onto your shoulders and make poems.

What sacrifice could I assume to make our souls entwined with a curse of permanence?

Through the bleak midnights
I sent some exclusive prayers.
Against the foggy distance, between our aches,
I stood numbly, with the urge to yearn for some touches, brimming with caresses.
My shoulders were full of tenderness, lured by the spreading lights beneath my calamity.
Our shades reflect on the waiting northern beacon; we are there, above all the sleeping folks, matted with white obedient doves, angelically, like the chosen lovers.

You are wafting above my carelessness like an aged, crafty hope.

Bearing in mind that, starting from this verse, I'm utilizing as much tenderness as I can, tolerating the brainstorming of some beautiful expressions I had saved, on the American manual lexicon that I craved, your mushy wings are too soft to ponder manipulating the ruin's hell, keep your baby heart classy and friendly so you can dwell.

There are days that you are glinting like a concealed jewel, joining the stars through their ceremonies, acting cool.

I'm too rigid and miserable to smash. Your whole integrity dares not mess with the unsolved poetic puzzle in its cache.

I like to escape through the light, to lose the fact of being detained.
Its rule could answer our call, not to increase our glare, but to devour it all.
forget about the darkness, and break the ice,
In a melancholic way, hide in the brightness without admitting that you’re craving the light.

Above the appalling ruin, you created an icy universe.
I received nothing but shock, my eyes wandering around in miserableness. I used to yearn for garden lullabies. Deep into your bewitching gaze, I couldn't ask for more, but I committed some tender rituals within your velvet lakes, overdosing on the sanctuary when crows were nearby, cawing for more melancholic offerings.
What kind of obligation would make your full-time miracles mine?

Into his hundred senses of delicacy and humour, I noticed a lexicon; an enormous candy factory, filled with sweet expressions and sensitivity, luring the outrageous cabin of mine, expanding the prettiness of the English grammar, idioms, and phrasal verbs into my illiterate tiny bunch of rebellious books. I sensed a great copious number of complex poems, rich of enchanting verses, fascinating stanzas that patted on my typos gently, guiding them into a better asylum. I wandered all around his incisive vocabulary, and for a while I lost my melancholy when he sluiced my dark excursion down. I loved him with all my misery. Yes, I did.

Don’t let me in,
I’m filled with hopeless stories and dead oceans.
Rooks are over me, picking at the strewn sore.
Getting closer to me is like leaping into the choke itself.
Stay safe with all your attractive blessings.

It's the fifth checkmate. I’m gathering such rich lyrics, organizing them in order to capture that image of the holy you, while you are hovering over my melancholic mind like a brilliant baby angel, delving gently with your holy fingertips into my memories, extracting the tender hallowed lullabies and gospels I used to distract dread with, and archiving some critical sores deeply into the rigid absent-mindedness of mine. Your portrait is bursting out of my soul like a fresh era, tempting my verses to leap out of my lines; it’s another uncertain obligation. Words down there, still conscious, for the sake of better refuge. Poems are shimmering, shivering, and blinking in every corner of this attempt. My soul wandering around, sinking in each corner for a better rhythmic choice, how many poetic soul do I need to cover this perfect divine of yours inside of my belief.