Honeycomb

panal-abeja

Hurting and flashing all day,

sunlight rushing into a yellow bay.

Crumbling under the sidewalk,

trying to get rid of the mad hawk.

 

Deep in the core of the forest,

trying to reach the love of the florist.

Stirring into the heart of the insignificant shore,

the one that they proudly call home.

 

Under the light of a star,

glittering the brightest of the sparks,

showing the amber of their souls,

more than they actually should.

 

They are all like a honeycomb,

waiting to stare,

the highest mountain on planet Earth.

 

Forever blind and unable to sing,

each time I touch them they fiercely sting,

Fortunately they are not connected enough,

to make every mistake so rough.

 

Spilling an alcohol on a bench,

hoping for it to finally drench,

the dark emptiness they can see below

that deceitful honeycomb made out of dough.

 

 

Sting

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Reckless

Life and dreams are peculiar, contradictory and slippery. They are a reckless rollercoaster that go both ways. You could choose to avoid that reckless path of dreams but you may be denying true life.

Because when you dream, you’re risking to have nightmares.

Dreaming is not easy, you can fall to the ground and sometimes it’s even harder to get up. You can be beaten and fail. Dreaming is a reckless trance, full of free falls and dead ends. Full of labyrinths and lost clues. Full of cruel darkness and closed doors. But there’s always light at the end of that reckless path, there’s always a way out and a perfect door that will take you the right way.

You can choose not to fall down the trance at noon, when people start chasing their dreams. Or you can go down the peculiar path of the never-ending labyrinth. Dreaming is a reckless shadow that pays with the same coin. That flies high on winter days and slows down when summer arrives.

So you could choose to fear everything, not to go deeper, not to love, not to dream but not to live. Because when you dream, you’re risking to have nightmares, you’re risking to feel the reckless part of the slope. But it’s better to feel alive chasing nightmares than to die in a perfect paradise.

 

 

Peculiar

Bittersweet

Life’s Color has turn half bittersweet,

because he would rather fall in chocolate,

than fall in love.

And I keep waiting right on the street.

 

Like the trill of a bird it sounds,

whenever he talks.

And under a hidden cloud,

his laughtEr walks.

 

Only to the sky,

his Smile can compare.

And I see just sparks fly,

whenever he stares.

 

It’s easier to recall the periodic table,

than wait for a glance.

Because I can’t find the courage,

to ask him for dinner or to dance.

 

Just look at the ocean to understand,

the hundred drops that are able,

to keep the hArmony,

in this crazy trance.

 

What can I say if you ask me about this?

Just that my life is bittersweet.

Because he would rather drown in chocolate,

than fall in love.

 

And I’ll be here for now,

looking inside those deep, brown eyes.

Noticing that an eagle is passing just in front,

that mahogany sunRise.

 

“As you doze of tonight, I’ll toss and turn. As your sweet dreams take flight, I’ll crash and burn. While you’re heart flutters free, I still can’t breathe. As you stir in your sleep… I hope you think of me.”

-Owl city.

 

 

Trance

Crazy as it goes

Loving him goes crazy,

for all the times he keeps me guessing.

Don’t know what’s going to happen next.

Uncertainty with all its effects.

 

Wondering where he’s taking me,

I talk as we leave society behind.

Willing to run away,

and now I’m waiting for the following surprise.

 

He paints my world blue and red,

can’t be compared to what I’ve read.

He makes my life give a million turns,

feel how my nerves burn.

 

My partner always leads the way,

and tells me to close my eyes.

He takes my hand and whispers in my ear,

saying that he never uses ties.

 

Suffering a running love,

that keeps me inside of a maze.

And I see the sparkle in his gaze,

when he makes me live my life,

crazy as he is,

crazy as it goes.

 

 

Partner

Timeless harmony

Cause when I’m with him, I’m surrounded by symphonies. When he talks to me, I’m just hearing melodies. And every time his sitting next to me is a sweet violin in my ear. Time starts to run faster, as if he wanted me to let go. I know time is just jealous of me winning the race. I have known people who creates symphony, people who makes music an endless harmony. But since I know him I’ve never need any other sound than his laughter echoing in my mind.

A careless symphony every time he whispers in my ear. A perfect violin talking to me. The drums when he laughs, a trumpet when he cries and a piano when he’s singing. Without any hurry. I just see jealousy in time’s sight because he know he can’t end my constant thoughts, the times I can see his smile in my dreams or the times I play that track in my mind. I know time just wants me to let go but he know I won’t. Because I don’t need any other sound than his voice echoing in my mind. Nor the piano, nor the drums, nor the sweetest guitar on Earth. There’s not an instrument which compares.

All the orchestra playing in his gaze.

Creating  a perfect, maybe careless, timeless harmony.

 

Symphony

A blackout

There, in the middle of the blackout, standing in the lonely and foggy pastures behind the mysterious shack, he could see the skyline. The dark skyline he wasn’t able to understand.

He could see ships, roses and planes. He could see lighthouses working as sentinels and low waves containing high-rise buildings.

The vultures transforming into doves. The fog into a mixture of honey and coffee and darkness into bright headlights.

Stars appeared in a blue sky and the sun lighted up a dark night. The dark skyline transformed in a light pond and mountains arose.

He could see deer standing in front of the headlights and flickering lamps. Crickets turned into violins and thunderheads into thunderstruck.

Fireflies stormed in, creating endless harmony and wild cries transformed into bird trills.

Once again he could smell flower fields and hear children’s joyful laughter.

A blackout stalking his mind in the middle of the foggy night. He returned to his awful thoughts, making happiness seem suffering. Fog in his memories, blurring his mind. He opened them again just to realize the gray environment he was in. One day, dark the night, dark the shack, dark the fire, dark the vultures surrounding the skies. The coldness of the night made him shiver and his fear return. He could still see the smoke downtown and hear the explosions.

A blackout again. He shut his eyes closed and returned to his hideout: right there, in his foggy and lonely pastures. All he did was record again the moments without that thundering, foggy and destructive shadow that people dare to call war.

 

Foggy

Tregua

Imagen 1El día en el que la vida del chico que saca a pasear al terrier cambió, yo recuerdo que el ascensor se detuvo en el séptimo piso y me saludó con una sonrisa. Sostuve el ascensor y esperé a que entrara. El día en que su vida dio un giro inesperado fue en el que bajamos juntos hasta el primer piso y no separamos a la hora de salir del edificio. El día más importante en su vida comenzaba a lloviznar, recuerdo que saqué la sombrilla del bolso. Nos sonreímos a la entrada del conjunto mientras él se ponía la capota de su chaqueta, el cielo era azorado por enormes nubes grises.

Se levantó de su cama y fue al baño a lavarse los dientes, acto seguido fue a la cocina y preparó algo de desayunar, se sentó a comer y leyó el periódico. Se vistió informalmente y salió a pasear a su perro: su chaqueta era negra, su pantalón también, sus zapatos de igual color. El día en que la vida de ese chico que pasea al terrier cambió tenía planeado ir a la escuela después de su caminata diaria junto al perro. El sol salió, la lluvia se acercaba, el terrier salió a correr, sus patas salpicando en los charcos.

Normalmente cruzaba la calle cuando me veía venir del otro lado. Sin embargo, ese día no lo hizo. Nos cruzamos en la acera, su mirada iba gacha, tratando de no encontrarse con la mía. Alcancé a detallar las pecas en su tez pálida. Ese día fue el último que lo vi pasar. Recuerdo bien que él día en que todo cambió el terrier se soltó de la correa, el chico detrás de él. Un error de la naturaleza, un giro que al destino se le escapó de las manos. El día en que todo cambió no pude contener mi grito, aún sin saber su nombre, asustada observando la velocidad de los hechos.

El día en que la vida del chico que sacaba a pasear al terrier todos los días cambió, recuerdo que venía un camión de basura del otro lado de la calle. La correa cedió, mi grito se liberó y no pude moverme de mi lugar en la acera. Mi protagonismo en la escena era poco. El día en que su vida cambió yo estaba ahí, lo recuerdo bien, el terrier salió corriendo pero él no pudo correr más. Ese día le sostuve el ascensor para que saliera a tiempo a sacar a su perro, nos sonreímos antes de salir al edificio y a esa misma hora pasaba un camión de basura del otro lado. El tiempo se detuvo. Los dos nos despertamos ese día y fuimos al baño a lavarnos los dientes. Desayunamos y nos vestimos informalmente. Ese día el ascensor paró en el séptimo piso, lo retuve, él entró con su perro y bajamos al primer piso. La correa se soltó y yo me percaté del camión pero él no me escuchó a tiempo. Algo que el destino olvidó: una tregua planeada para dos.

Margaritas

¿Me quiere?… ¿No me quiere?

Una margarita me dijo que su corazón pertenece a alguien más, una margarita me dijo que aún está tratando de olvidar. Ayer esa misma margarita me dio esperanzas y hoy me destroza el corazón. Rompe mis ilusiones con cada uno de sus pétalos, vuelve a repararlas con suspiros. Recoge mis lagrimas, se las lleva con el viento. Esa margarita ahora me dice que no puedo regresar, que su corazón está comprometido, hoy esa margarita me arranca los anhelos y se los guarda para ella.

La misma margarita que un día me prometió que todo iba a salir bien, el mismo jardín que susurraba su nombre. Margarita que me escuchó leer en voz alta los cuentos escritos en el fondo de mi corazón, que nunca abandonó las esperanzas de una película de romance. Hoy toma entre sus manos esas esperanzas y las lanza contra el piso. Un libro, una mirada. Una palabra, una sonrisa. Y a medida que la historia avanzaba, la cercanía aumentaba. Definiciones sin concretar, sueños sin aprobar y una eterna espera mirando el teléfono son lo que me queda.

¿Me quiere?… ¿No me quiere?

Veo su sonrisa en la soledad, sus ojos en la oscuridad. Escucho su risa en el silencio y me resuenan sus palabras mientras camino a casa.

¿Me quiere?… ¿No me quiere?

Porque yo sólo me siento en ese jardín, observando a mi alrededor y contando cada margarita que pierde la vida por él.

 

Two weeks

A month, the time left to forget.

A year, I left it behind.

A twinkling star reminds me the sparkle in his eyes and a sweet melody reminds me the color of her eyes. A dark night brings to my memory his seriousness and a blow of fresh air shows me their images printed on the sky.

A month may be too much, a year may be too late. But two weeks is perfect, two weeks for a couple to fall in love, two weeks to smile or two weeks to finish a book. It doesn’t matter, there are still two weeks.

If you can’t in a year, or in a month, then wait for those two weeks. The time I’ve got left to forget, to let go, to move on. And it doesn’t matter what I do, there are still going to be two weeks. Two weeks made of spring, sunsets and flowers. Two weeks that defy time, that keep frozen in my mind, but I know, sooner or later, I will have to bury them along with the rest of my past. Just give two weeks and I promise I will

Still around. Always haunting. It’s time betraying me once again, it’s life returning to her actual pace. It’s his smile frozen throughout the hours, it’s his laughter hidden between the trails of wind. It’s his happiness fading with the fog. Just give me two weeks and I promise I’ll forget him.

Unable to forget, I keep all of them in my heart and I will keep them there until the end of these eternal two weeks.

 

Bury

Sails

Like a boat abandoned in the middle of the ocean,

we aren’t able to see.

What we are sailing,

when we try to flee.

 

Like the inspiration running down the streams,

of the perfect illusion,

of perfect dreams.

 

A surrealist painting,

handling salt.

Driven by the wind,

with a landscape full of bittersweet.

 

Now, looking at the ocean,

and its foamy surface.

I look through a mirror

with it’s same purpose.

 

Don’t give up.

Look at the thousand ships around you,

waiting to set sail,

waiting to be tamed.

sails

Taken from: url

 

 

Sail