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TO DENGUE

On a moonlit night, the eve of my birthday

was working and studying but I was wishing you

Even my sister I confessed my desire for
you are upset and told me I was crazy.

few days passed in which I had left in oblivion

But I came to wish

My body gets warmer than usual and a feeling of dizziness came over me,

and did not know you and you almost forgot

But you came into my body without permission
Y mi cuerpo descanso,se durmió,se quedo aliviado un par de horas

Al día siguiente la temperatura de mi cuerpo aumento tan intensamente que las lágrimas salieron de mis ojos, pedí auxilio
Pero nadie creyó que estaba sufriendo

Me tomaste, entraste y saliste de mi, me hiciste pedir auxilio y casi terminaste conmigo así que fui a urgencias.

Ni un trío de inyecciones que aun duelen en mi cuerpo o una dotación de pastillas me aliviaron de ti. Una dosis cada seis horas de paracetamol, olvido y vivir en la no realidad fue lo que te hizo irte de mí.

Ahora ya te extraño, sin embargo ya no te deseo. Esos efectos, si pasaran otra vez, no podrían ser just delicious. Fly and find another victim you may want and where you can stay longer, why, who could hate you less than me? Cenit

HM

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Why not write a poem

Simple, because at this time (you do not always know it's going to happen tomorrow) is not my kind of writing, not the style in which I believe I can develop the ideas I have regarding a theme or none, besides that I have a default picture of what a poem, and this picture is something like:

... Your hair is
beige color and I like the sound of your nails.
when the wind blows
my eyes cry and why sometimes I can not see well your hair beige ..

not write poems and I admire those who do know and are able to do so, to me would be very difficult to say what I would say in this default mode of poem that I have in my head because I want to say would have to adapt to the way poem and the adequacy trasncurso I may be half of what I mean. Ana A.

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I do not write poems, write poetry ...

Claudia Cervantes


Everything is dry ...

scream came when she was desperate for wanting to be heard
I could keep everything in me, it was easy to shut my secrets until I cry now
voiceless.

had been cast aside all thought that this comment
rather hear something else, but people
kept
repeat it ... this time might once again believe in you
thought that nothing was, or was useless until you reach
expect you to believe whatever it
me wrong, I'm wrong ...

I am weak, this is my weakness
always listening, always right and my
everything dries ...
all I say yes, but I am not able to fill
never do enough, I always forget
say I'm great, when I see my hand
not reach the exit door I never


case ... my eternal silence
appointing them repeat - I I said -

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forget I forget ....

P

Ensar despite not feeling

felt not live in yesterday or today

improve

pain is not pain

when you have an illusion

The cause of yesterday only makes

catch me in your being

's smile is what I fall

I saw and I did not dare to forget

and let love

a taste of sweet and sour

while I would repeat again and again

is just crazy.

enter into this crazy passion leads

thinking of you

despair, love,

but it is the madness of love.

Tenerte

is what makes me follow

without knowing your destination

know you're way beyond me.

Nancy Lissette Varela Avila

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Spend time the confidence and experience accumulates;
songs remain the heart softener
coffee companion and mind your reality.

Where you've been thinking, Walking
life, working, banalities;
But here you are, and this time do not go.

Let me ponder, let me be happy, make me live ...

Where are you love where you are happy, where are fraternity
Can not you see people mourn?
Can not you see the injustices jump?
Today I cried for this, it is time to act, you just have to love.

... just have to love

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Why not write a poem? Because there are many things at this time do not let me think about anything but them, so do not want to make a poem, and therefore the decision to better justify why not.

At first, that I can write a poem, whether of love, heartbreak or otherwise, need to be inspired, be in the moment of things, so this way we can get what Sorry, because I think when you write a feeling that at the right time is when you can really get to pass and is nothing more to do so by nomas. Another thing that happens is that right now I'm like angry at life, I have spent so many things that inspire me rather than do the opposite, that the more I think about them but I get angry and do not let me think otherwise. Finally, there is a reason that at the moment is like that bothers me, I know it's a small thing but it made me remember something that happened to me in real life and if I get like that to affect, believing they already had passed I realized that I did not and here, again with that in my head, I'm speaking of a dream I had, but what happened in that dream, I spend something like this for some time in life , which if I hurt myself today when I lived and dreamed it was like I came back to feel what I felt at that moment, I relived that moment I wanted to take my mind and now I realize it is still present. So there are many things right now and they will not let me and turn in my head, do not let me think of something else.

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Nayelli LACK OF INSPIRATION

Every day is equal
pass without trace, only a smell
gray dense caged
builds on memory.

Today, as there are no illusions, there is no intention
,
missing emotion,
I am breathless.


not want to write I can not feel, not today

inspire me you look so simple.

---------------------------------------------- CLOUDY


Hearing the waves
the melody of your voice harmonize with it,
Enjoying the sigh of the wind
the aura of your arms feel.

Feeling the sand pores in my skin
all my body poisons
Seeing sunset ecstasy
the depth of your eyes begin to understand.

Although today all feels cloudy,
and only a sad day is here, I know you'll always be

be waiting on me.


Marc Cortés

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Tomorrow ... Time

winter was weak,
the fields were dry,
the streets were full, people were tired
. Today

life disappears before our eyes,
and we are blind. Today
alarms are on,
and we were deaf.
Today we can do so much, and we are still
. Tomorrow

no water, no air
,
no colors.
Tomorrow there will be nothing.
Tomorrow there will be no tomorrow. Ximena Aceves

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reasons for not wanting or not able to write a poem.

Heriberto Castellanos Martín Loza

To speak of something is necessary to know, as happens with writing a poem. One of the main reasons for not writing a poem is because I have the skills to do this, do not read much poetry and I have no experience of writing one poem.

remember when I lived with a cousin whom he was fascinated by the poems and had a whole drawer where the stored them and often pulled for re-reading, I taught them, gave him a one and read until there was, I never caught the attention of show me tell others or ask as did, from that time did not attract me poetry.

Now I could decide between writing a poem or substantiate the reasons why I can not write a poem, choose the latter because I do not want to just put the title of a poem when it is not, would lie to myself and try to deceive others.

For example if someone was looking for and find "my poem" would cause you to lose time because in reality there would be a worthwhile writing, and at least publish the reasons for not wanting or able to write a poem I have some foundation.

I'm not closed to never write a poem, if you learn the basic things well and try, but for the moment. Yesterday

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Yesterday, today, tomorrow ...
Why live immersed in you?

Memories, dreams, hope
rage or a fit of passion
struggle, life, disaster
as if everything you wanted as well. Friend or Foe

high hopes,
ally, accomplice, lover and confidant,
shut up, hear, feel in the bonanza,
disdain, corrupt and shake people.

existing Being created in the mind, body similar
current philosophy.

you yesterday, a reminder of the past
live today, captive and desolate, waiting
morning, cautious and quiet.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow ...
Why live immersed in you? Alex Ornelas

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Poem of the body and the universe

The mornings are cold and the palm of my hand in greeting, but is not happening to me, in my blood and I can not warm up.

Sometimes I would be like those rivers warm around a volcano, full of life that run through without stopping, and more dusk Mintra more life begin to overflow.

My legs are long and thin, like the branches of a tree that wobble when the wind starts to blow.

the evening turned to see the sky and see stars reflected there and I realize qu are like all these spots on my body that can not be erased, it made me frustrated. But I realize that just came into this world so I can compare.

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others to write ... I read.

I have been a big problem,
write a poem.

not want to write like I do not understand, I
beats anything.

I can not write, because I lack
language, I do not know
meter or rhyme, too many rules limit

me and because I read very few.

Besides reading few understand
less, sometimes nothing. Metaphors
think he said,
express or implied,
that cost me work!

But
read to write a thousand times to read,
for only one writing them. Because
poetry for me is this:
that good write, I read it.

Rafael Gómez

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the art of poetry

When I think of writing poetry, I think the high level that reaches my uselessness for large works. Writing a poem is for me the same difficulty for an artist means sculpting David of Michelangelo, painting Demoiselles d'Avignon by Picasso or design the structure of the Eiffel tower in Paris. Despite the name authentic heritage of humanity, far from me not only reach, but also the rest of most mortals, my capacity for poetic creation is so far from the great works and simple poems. I've never tried writing a verse. Sadness, joy, despair, happiness ... These feelings are not reflected in the paper with beautiful words. Those feelings are hidden inside me. Maybe someday decide to leave. Maybe not ever do it. Perhaps out of a clumsy and abrupt. Or who knows, maybe paint a Picasso. jon Santurtun

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The reason for not writing poetry

Adriana Garza Casillas

is roughly the structure in verses of poetry, its rhythm and pace that sometimes do not have, his art and classical authors about this, it is a literary genre that is related to poetry and expresses the author's inner feelings with external realities, it is a proposal that seeks to exalt the reader something, I know uses a variety of procedures and devices to be created.

What is not is if I can write it and because he would not begin writing poetry, if not appropriate to do so as not to mix my feelings with the external reality in a set of verses that may cause some the reader. No should have to see that a person is sensitive to better capture the moments of poetic inspiration, and do not know how anyone can be prepared to create a poem, not aesthetically summarized my thoughts about reality.

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odors

Defined as a lover of decay,

satisfied with their rotten existence

Captivated by the smells that poverty produces

Immersed in the darkness of your consciousness.





Always walk into an enclosure, you can save

good smells,

know the shortcut to the phallus,

hand moving, removing buttons.





post-sex odor pleased,

Your fetid breath blowing in his face,

lying, saying know what you do,

Giving you the satisfying smells.





you like to hear moaning his name,

Knowing what your mind thinks sinister

love your faults, want your lies,

you like who you are, loves to suck.



Mara Espinosa (believe it or not)

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Reasons

By Daniela Mayoral

Too many cobwebs invading my mind can not release this great side with which many have, even that side of Teflon characteristic me has made me forget what it takes to write poetry. I do not deny that I am a good magician excited about excite others to read what I write, but my dream is very weak and meaningless.

Maybe later you can make the shadows that surround me and make my knowledge lacks a light, go away and lights a taste for writing poetry and at the end of many words, is reached only road tax for me and everything involved in putting feelings in a letter that goes rhymes beyond beautiful.

the end do not know if I could put some reasons for the lack of motivation and knowledge to write it like many did, but if I turn you imagine how many laps the reasons I did not give to poetry. Clouded minds are the slowest to explain and mine is completely in shadow.

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poetic poetry, poetry

Poetry, poem, rhythm, rhyme, prose, poetry, love, substance, hatred, essence, feeling things I never understand, things that I forget things sometimes want to erase those things that you never know how to emphasize, how to start, and finish. Never completed, always tried, do you always have to fail? May well have to be, just run, just breathe and let go. Bitterness, frustration, creative block, block rhyme, fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear that you like, you understand fear, fear that you are just one more, fear not protrude, fearing excel. Laziness, ignorance, apathy, desires not completed, resentment and love found, only written more, without meaning or substance, Only one more attempt and a new failure in life.

Christian

Ortigoza

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I do not write poems, write poetry ...

All dried ...

scream came when she was desperate for wanting to be heard
I would keep everything in me, it was easy to shut my secrets until I cry now
without voice.

comment had been away all this time I thought
hear otherwise,
but people kept
repeat it ... this time might once again believe in you
thought that nothing was, or was useless until you reach
believe you expect whatever it
me wrong,

me wrong ... I am weak, this is my weakness
always listening, always right and my
everything dries ...
all I say yes, but I am not able to fill
never do enough, always
I forget to say I'm great, when I see my hand
not reach the exit door I never


case ... my eternal silence
appointing them repeat - I told you -

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Throughout the week I tried without any results, write a poem or something that came near him. At first I thought maybe it was lack of concentration or inspiration, but the truth is that a person can not talk about what is not known and this is what happened. I think my difficulty in writing a poem because I do not know poetry, because I have not had an approach to reading. This distance has been because I have rarely sought to read poetry, because I usually have attracted little attention. However, in a class recently read some poems that I liked a lot, especially those of Francisco Hernández. I especially like the following:

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two

Maybe if I intend to hear and read a little poetry, soon to write my own poem. Maria Fernanda Peña

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Competition steamboat







I know you will not come heme Yet there
Under the canopy of burned seeds floating
going down, Falling on
surface trembling sigh,
Del thinned gray separates us.

vile bandit steals
From Silicon reflection piece that covers your torso.
That tempts me to cross to reach you
As I look and I die and shine!,
Mocking
Al show pieces of quartz on its ridges.

know I will not go to you
Yet give me the urge to support the unfinished
and pretend that I approached his knife
Imagining the siren song does not lead to the cliffs
That perhaps revel exciting to see my presence in the eddies.
And the wind that lifts the candle ... but I do not, for shame.

I know not what reflects you, what light through
With my image your pond
Or perhaps I have a resounding echo in the underworld of your bad dreams.
And every night I fall asleep, like today, trying to decipher the enigma,
So, I see you and you lean, as if trying to touch the warm silence grace in captive deer
What secret forest nymph.
And I
with curare at the tip
rotting in
attempt at redemption in the second, taste your meat


lust in my hands forward and clots that slip through the gums ... but I know I will not.

One night without headlights have your mouth to my
A shadow, show me your gestures when I try to esfumarte silence
Naufrago, having you in front
And not listening to the waves,
Only the fear that another star from the shore ... although, why you go on?
If you know you see ... you know, you know what I see? ... And since January

approach promised not know only you
And yet there.
and glide for a moment on lead
Until their weight becomes two-dimensional spectra, Orange and intangible

That granite sink to the bottom.

My desires, even after so long spring
And the daffodils are still intact
Hoping some good wind you
O come to me I come to you,
Although you can not go for you,
Although you tied me to this rock because you would not come

why I always wait here which Obsessed Arjona, ridiculous,
Because you know what I look
And if one day you will no longer seems so large and embarrassing fears this pit
Believe me, I will do everything possible to make the crossing
And you get to the haven of my arms.
My faith is in it.

But today,
Selene's calling, calling to his creatures.
you're going, fast, so fast, the charm away, nymphs hide,
hands near the edge and capturing your extra points victory
you separate your boat under his arm
And the wind that I command with a whisper filled with more than congratulations.

(What a strange ending as more in the moonlit night in the aquarium).





Poetry is definitely cheesy and sappy, and if it appears in some cases because they may be using a large vocabulary. It strikes me reading poetry I have to accept, but write me extremely recreational and fun, I say, we all have our side-ridiculous drama and poetry has fueled much of it, in my opinion. But what if a few manage to make poetry an art (and do not include myself among those who did), but still the most know and write just as there will still be the TV notes, leaves the parish, the subtleties in public bathrooms and personal growth books.

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Requiem

Lying in the dark

hidden inside the abandoned home of

is a sad heart.

lies on a bed as if wounded,

on his face is the look of a being disappointed, lost

and reveals the betrayal suffered disturbed.

There was a time when there really was magic in it,

see anyone who could tell

that he was a great, live, for a change .

The desire was strong, burning a flame ineffable

heat spread throughout the stomach and chest.

His aura was beautiful colors, could be confused with a prism,

beam was all, I say do ... lightning lightning, thunder killer tops!

For such energy peaks that had not even touched her wake.

But the crowd eventually devour all,

usual the ignorant to be cannibalistic.

now plague of loneliness threatens to destroy

old woods of his room.

strives to maintain a word, his worn ropes

only spoken sounds crazy, remnants of a distant voice.

Your mind remembers the fate of the exquisite dances,

allagados but his feet only known worms,

their only visitors.

The once overflowing cup is now opaque,

no longer has the will to keep it high.

Hugo Luna

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What is today? The rhythm of my breathing, the coordination of my footsteps,
the presence of myself, the solitude that accompanies me, my feet on the ground,
stimuli in my eyes, a good evening to laugh,
notice the handprints of others who left mark on me,
a sense thousands of ways, the color of my bracelets, being me,
read things that make you think, see my reflection in a glass and recognize,
this day, this world, this time.

I love a good full of sincerity, the words I can say, own me, smiles for gifts, souvenirs and enjoy living in the present.
Today is the voice of my eyes, the power of my silence,
the expectation of the unexpected, feelings to feel,
tears and pain-filled life, a sky reminds me of the immensity
a worm to admire, disappointments to weather ... laugh and laugh to float.


(sorry for the lack of accents ..)

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I write about you

I want to write about yourself ...




I can not.

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sketches are firmer
I think there is a whole avacado
best done let me say that I can not

asymptotically I

I stay I'll start to gnaw

the most primitive of the paradigms
furrow in the dimension B = 001, 100, 010.
try to clear my mind

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takes only a few minutes to midnight. As I walked I could barely see beyond his nose, that day the intensity of the blinding rain to anyone. As he passed the dock of the old beggar in the plaza, he thought he would be empty, as the whole city bureaucrat. First thought should not be afraid of the piercing eyes, the smell of pork, to misjudge. Stalled at the moment, a skinny body and posing naked on the bench, the man looked at the sky while Rivers of dirt running down the mountain slope of his being, washing, purifying. The scene touched him too, little by little was naked too, the rain stopped.

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because not Everyone finds the same day today looking for my

more innocent life takes you less afraid you will have. Not because he is brave, but because he loves her too. Before the very eyes the color of the thing which has to be, at the recollection of her feelings of repeated time that has seen him. Perceived change in which something is no longer, remains left.

In memory of what he left, he sees too innocent. Remains the color that has seen it loves the sensations. It must be repeated that when the thing is no longer seen, not because fear has left the change.

innocent because he loves the change. He made repeated when fear. It must be because it is viewed. Thing.

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atemporareidad

I have a theory about things. It seems trite and terse put it that way, but could not be otherwise.

Everything is there because all living together with perceptions of any kind, unconsciously or consciously materilaizan a reality in which there is room for everyone at their own level. We create the image of the ancients we will be, some day, too old. All power driven towards making our world q it is beyond the solar system, galaxy, even, dare I say, the universe. Yesterday

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you talk with a friend, who believes more yours than mine. It was not very pleasant, not a disappointment. It was sweet of you, you feel some concern for my emotional health. In short, the thinks you're an idiot. I said before I dijiera anything, so I did not hide my resentment for a second.

I said I tore, still do not understand why I'm still believing that, it gives other powers. I wish you had even power over me, that is. I think if you talk that way you are still an important part, or rather, I am an important part. Because if I remember correctly, that day it was I who destroyed, who broke away on the sidewalk of a road that could not be more horrendous. I said things deeper, more painful, the real. My Stuff. I said, seeking to rescue me from my own concept of "my" waiting for love, your love, help me understand my life. It was useless and very painful to see that you rejoice in my weakness, how gozabas in the not so shallow that your predictions about who I am come true before your eyes.

Your "friend" told me that you are selfish, inlcluso bad, until you concidero hammer. And I do not defended, or offended you. It was my turn to listen, I'm tired talking, and he had many things to say that interest me. Look at you from your history was like to look at myself from the television, so alien, so alienating. I realized that if I were, I would read the newspaper in your life, attend to your dreams and even more, I'd look out the window while you make love. I felt grateful to him for showing the world to you from the others, those who have lived without you tell them you love them, the ugly and twisted you do not want to accept.

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A dream haunts me. A man looks at me. A second touches me. A sigh comes over me. Always some thing or another, always something, never nothing.

I hate that I have must individuality. How I would not be, and just feel. And do you remember me back sand, lost moments, I feel that I lose.

I flip through two or three times, still do not understand. I do it again, I think I understand. History proves that no, I do not understand anything, and I like it. I rejoice in the uncertainty of human chronology, I squirm as well.

How much desire do not set my sights on the stories of others, but live them. Be in them, in you again. Do not forget I'm afraid it's just that I'd like to hear your story from the inside. I like both.

I want to go to the countryside, breath work, sweat dignity than to eat, which would love to death. Running until your knees tremble, and go harder. Living without judging anyone or anything, without fear, not mourn.

The more I look the less I believe. There is no image that defines everything, and all of them define me. Wanting. I miss the statements in the hope that I never achieved.

No more suffering of my brothers, we need not live like this. Why some are determined to build using the search despite the other? let us not drag on the alacantarilla of false happiness, shared accommodation, pollution of the soul and the planet. They do not realize, or maybe if I do not care for now.

I'll find a way.


P.D. Déjame amarte, déjame amarme

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Voy corriendo, rápidos mis pies buscan el paso constante. Atrás el olvido va deborando las migajas que al acto dejo. Es un animal agresivo que no me deja volver, me persigue por las callejas de este enorme pueblo contaminado de apegos.

Se vislumbra al fondo de éste camino el ténue reflejo de la luna sobre las olas. Se que podré logarlo. La euforía que antes traté de apaciguar, estalla en mil millones de senaciones que inundan mi pensamiento, mi piel, mis entrañas. Corro sin sentir al viento rompiendo en la tela, en las mejillas, ni en el cabello, corro sin limites hasta la orilla húmeda.

I can see you swim in the waves after breaking on the sand at my feet. With all the energy contained nail me for a needle in the ridge arrives, free, release me into the sea of \u200b\u200bnectar. Touch your toes, then legs, everything. The current is strong but the warm embrace idea of \u200b\u200bnot letting go, hold me with the certainty of water. Far

has become the beast that I could understand the way, you can not follow me to where I am. Float on the surface; immutable beyond vivid memories of me and you are dispersed in the liquid, to join later. A boat small tarball. Full speed ahead, ask me to tie the sails, we like to look over the side areas litmus. The sunset with us to make love.

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A secret fish hanging around the edges of the truth know what to say. He clenched his eyes and took a deep breath before letting out any words, I knew rompre secret and preferred not balance. "Dear love, life is a picture of the universe rests in the body moments before .- He lost in a hurry tunas.

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body feels, sometimes, and live as if you were any, change. Space is intended as a place where things exist, sea of \u200b\u200bnectar. An idea conceived in the shadow of view, sensible, and as if they do well, the express. Revolusión conspire a thought, exparsidas crumbs. It poses an eye on the cat and the other in the scribble. The meat still smells fill the atmosphere is poor in this city as red and gray.

between one step and the other one without it I think. The next detest you on my mind. Attitude is that appellant be conceived only as an individual, unique and different. Is a, I say in silence I'm not alone.

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I'm drowning in heavy air, you hear a rustle in the deep and my heart is breaking. augujero exhausts the substance that makes me smile, little by little green, blue and yellow purple dripping on my chest and thin soil their clothes. a hurricane of ideas sad hits my body, throwing it away. then pulled the dress there is no longer seen as strange and dirty, and I start to lift the small pieces of glass. I can see your image on them still, suspended in the desire to be close. to contact the fluid melts on my hands a little puddle of bright light reflecting my eyes, and turn them you are. I stay quiet and to look at you, so I can miss one. I am tempted to drink you with a thirst on their backs and the warm air. fresh light runs down my throat as if he knew where it came from and where they want to go, my heart stops and rebuilt crack. I get up to walk the path of the absurd. I do not think this is a dream, I can still see my hands.

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