In Silent

Within a shell near the sea,

 inhabits a quiet voice.

 A voice that is lost in time and the darkness

 of the night. A voice born out of regrets,

sorrow, and a million scars.

Scars that carve a path directly

to the heart.

A heart that is enchained

to the body of a slave.

A slave that has no voice

or a master to serve.

The voice within the shell is

nothing more than a bird;

a bird that has no time nor desire to fly.

To fly and explore a world

full of a thousand beauties.

 A world with only one Christ and

a million heartless Hitler’s.

Hitler’s that condemn the voice

to inhabit in the dark.

To forget about the past and the wisdom of the stars.

The stars that judge up high

and pull the strings of life.

The voice within the shell

lives out of humans hate.

The hate that consumes their souls

 and make them inhumane.

The Bird

In the darkness of the night a bird came singing by.

A bird that had no eyes to see the morning light.

A bird that had no smile due to its lack of heart.

A bird that had no wings to escape the prison bars,

That chained its soul to mine and made him a butterfly.

Condemn

Not a soul shall be condemn to the darkness of this room;

That slashes your soul apart and tints your wings out of the blue.

This room full of secret shadows

That hunt your heart at night, that makes your body

Whisper and your feet tremble bad.

Not a soul shall be condemn to die alone in the dark.

To die without respect and a ray of light at dawn.

To die facing the moon in the coldness of the stars.

The stars that judge up high and pull the strings of life.

Not a soul shall be condemn to grief alone in this room;

This room full of past spirits and the solitude of winds.

Father

Your smile hurts my soul,

It devours my innocence.

It leaves me bleeding an ocean of tears.

Tears that come when not needed; tears that burn;

tears that create a passage between the pitiful corners of my mouth

and my glorious cheeks. Tears that make the heart

ache and the body crumble. Tears that make me hate the warms

of the Sun and the color of the Sky.

You… Yes, I am talking to you Father.

You who have forgotten my name; who has forgotten

the color  of my eyes and even the day of my birth.

You who deems lies white,

And demand respect at the top of the hill.

You who have forgotten the passage home and the

Route to my arms; I am talking to you Father…

My hero, my rock, my killer.

The Dark Voice

Writing is a quiet voice that kills and devours humanity.

Its hunts the strong and empowers the weak.

It gives freedom to the rebels, and a sanctuary to the devil.

Writing is the force that breaks through the walls of time, and the chambers of the heart. Writing is the foundation of the soul and a weapon of the mind.

Writing is my eternal companion and greatest ribald.

He exists to destroy me, and I to make him live.

He fills himself with hurtful words that slowly destroy.

He pretends to be objective, yet he condemns my soul to the darkness

of a land, that I have never known nor will never reside.

He pretends to be deaf, to not hear my demands.

He pretends to be my friend, yet he stabs me in the back.

He pretends to be impartial, yet those who made him are corrupt.

 He pretends to be in time, yet he is always late in darkness.

He pretends; he pretends to be the things that I can’t be,

 to see the things that I can’t see,

to hear the things that I can’t hear.

He, Writing is my greatest joy and weakness.

 When I am happy he lacks sympathy. When I am sad he overtakes my steps.

He covers my weakness with evilness and makes a mask

out of my sorrow. A mask able to portray his greatness.

No one comes to him if it’s not through me.

And no one comes to me if it’s not through him.  

Writing and I seem to posses what the other lacks.

We are part of a greater plan.

He frees my soul from this corrupt world.

He gives me love, freedom, justice, and peace.

He seal my demons and I let him live.  

 

Burning

My heart is burning, my bones, fragile;

I feel them breaking apart, demanding freedom .

The breaking is soft, slow, painful, agonizing… delightful?

For I prefer dying than cowardly giving myself to the tyranny of

society and its unconventional norms. I prefer losing my soul to Hades

than conforming to them who demand justice,

yet go behind the walls of Greece like the carnivorous Sphinx

devouring the lifeless corpses of the ignorant and naive.

They forgot that those corpses were the ones that gave them

power and brought them light in darkness; they forgot who they

were and from where they came; they forgot their humanity

 in the process of becoming aristocrats.

Bad seeds that pollute the Earth!

Disgraceful individuals who only seek your own fortune,

I wash my hands from your tyranny;

I would not hold myself accountable for the blood

of the innocent, nor the fall of the empire;

 I am innocent and as an innocent being I will die

facing the light. But you my fellow friends;

 my disciples remember that a life in chains is no life.

 A life without choices and in repression is

worse than death itself, as death is the path to freedom.

I wait your arrival at the Elysian Fields.

 

The Weak

Only the weak are cruel.

They are headless horseman’ who

are influenced by the force and vitality of

the horse and not its darkness.

Therefore, I am like the wind; powerful, free, and unforgiving.

I am influenced by nothing less

than my own pathetic will and arrogance.

I am wild, brutal, and destructive. I don’t let

the Coriolis or pressure influence my

course or power.

I decide where, how, and when

to go and come.

My own influence has granted me

knowledge, wisdom, and greatness. I have

discovered and excelled in the arts of lies, bretayal,

and fakeness. Thanks to my own influence

I have become the epitome of a Goddess.

I am a major influence in weather patterns, the

production of ocean waves, and the

formation of desert regions. My

own influence has made me strong,

mature, individual who is willing to accept

failure and adversity as a necessary

part of the innovation process.

It has made me a heartless cold hearted individual

who only seeks a glimpse of light and warmth, in the

world submerged in the oblivion of time.

A world full of more strangers and weeping than

you can understand.

A world more dangerous than a loaded pistol

in the hand of a child.

A world in which ignorance is blessed and

reality condemned. Where

I am alone…

and no one seems to notice but me. My own

influence has made me who

I am today. I am like the wind;

you can’t see it but you can feel it.

Who You Are

Your motto is freedom

Yet you enchain my soul.

Your philosophy is equality

Yet you are unfair to my kind.

You motto is peace

Yet you kill without restrain.

Your philosophy is unity

Yet you refuse and denial my existence.

Your motto is love

Yet you punish me with solitude.

Your philosophy is greatness;

You rule the world

Yet you rule without compassion.

How cruel are you my God?

Oh God!

Oh God!

Oh God!

Don’t leave me in the darkness;

I am afraid of its creatures,

I am afraid of its manners.

Oh God!

Oh God!

Don’t forget about your child;

I am afraid of the fire,

I am afraid of the water.

Oh God!

Oh God!

Don’t abandon me like your Father.

Iris

Who I am? Am I a flower, a butterfly, or a demon?

Should I no longer be concerned about this world?

I am a blooming flower that wants to

someday change back into a flower bud.

I am the byproduct of a wither culture,

the flower bud of a demon.

I am an Iris; deep and mysterious.

I am the eternal promise of renewal, rebirth, and the

transformation of monotony into delight.

I am the symbolic representation of wisdom, faith, hope,

commitment, and eloquence. However, as a flower

I must scatter away at some point.

Abandon the protective stem, and face my destiny.

Abandon the conservative environment that controls and

restricts my thinking;

that chains me down to a dyed crimson soil.