Toxic.

I hold no fear for self-breakage,

I refuse self-help.

But you should fear me when I break,

I feel like rotting everything around me

if I am broken myself.

My agony is slow and I am sentenced

to wander half dead through the remains of my own body,.

I shall follow steps of the new born victims

and take their blank spaces and their gloomy realities.

I am nothing but a shadow,

and under the rain I vanish,

and I am cursed by the sunlight to never reappear.

Do you ever feel like being ugly?

Or do you ever feel like breaking patterns?

'Cause I don't fear being different,

rejoiced by the weirdness of my features.

I am the queerest contraption.

I sleep under the warm roofs like the mice do,

and wake up to the sound of the floods.

I run fast like lightning,

and I will hunt you inside of your lucid nightmares.

I hide to smile,

for I hate the sound of other human's laughter.

Laugh is contagious,

I might infect them with my radiance.

I am the happiness slaughter,

and I would kill to make you cry.

I am the monster under the shiny mask.

Ashes cover the isolated paths upon which I will seduce you to walk.

Fear no ugliness,

fear no dimensions,

fear no change,

fear no darkness,

fear no inner hate,

fear nobody.

Not even yourself.

~AbrilRouge~

Limpio

Como el aire de montaña, 

cual cuerpo desangrado de cabeza,

lleno solamente del abstracto amor con el que se concibe la vida. 

Como el color cyan de los cumulonimbos a medio día.

Al paso del tiempo no se le presta paciencia, 

Se le evade como a un enemigo armado. 

Se vive entonces en un torbellino

Pero sin arrepentimiento alguno

Porque se vive con el corazón.

No le tengo miedo a nada, 

Ya estoy vieja para vivir asi. 

Vivo en reclusión voluntaria, 

Como un apartado desierto Ártico. 

Soy feliz siendo señera, 

Mi mundo es inventado

Y contiene referencias que sólo yo comprendo.

Limpio, como un corazón incierto,

como una emoción pasajera, 

cual ave que tiende sus alas

en el invencible viento 

en lo alto de los cielos.

ฯ|AbrilRouge

Nadie me conoce.

Sabes que siempre me han gustado estos pasatiempos estúpidos como cultivar tomates 

o izar un jardín japonés. 

Creo que sólo trato de dejar una huella en el mundo, 

semillas de mis más profundos bosques 

que crezcan para describir quien fui. 

La mayor parte del tiempo no sé si estoy cuerda 

o si mi intención es demasiado sincera y le hace falta realce. 

Sin embargo, no pretendo dañar a nadie con mi forma de vivir, 

no trato de merecer nada 

(a veces me ahoga el dar tanto y nunca recibir un poco de gratitud a cambio,

naturalmente) 

y trato de hecho, de subvencionar el entorno con mi existir, 

con mis no muy efectivas acciones individuales para cambiar el mundo.

No intento en realidad de decir algo específico con todo esto.

Es más! Trato de ser tan clara como puedo 

transmitiendo un burdo mensaje:

no tengo nada que decir. 

Sólo camino por abismos color índigo y con sabor a daiquirí, 

divago en esta idea que siempre he tenido en la mente:

no pertenezco a ningún lado. 

No hablo ningún idioma conocido

y no creo que nadie comprenda lo que trato de decir. 

Salvo, quizá, dos personas: 

Las dos partes de la dualidad.

La comunicación verbal 

y el silencio.

La realidad más conocida y aceptada 

y una dimensión que apenas he explorado.

Sigo soñando,

situaciones muy extrañas, 

 esa vida paralela inexplorada me parece más real cada día.

Puede ser que no sea cierto lo que pienso, 

pero no conozco a nadie en cuyo criterio confíe,

ni mentes con experiencias como las mías. 

Nadie me conoce. 

 ‎26 ‎de ‎noviembre ‎de ‎2015

abril|әƃnoɹ

Nodding dumbly.

This gives my soul the closure that I never got from you. 

I can now have something to remember you forever. 

Something that will live up to remind me that you

are not the mirage I see in my dreams, every

now and then. (Night and day)

I can now reach out and touch you.

I can pay devotion to the miracle of love,

the illusion of waking every morning to think of you.

And you must think I

 am a piece of trash for talking about you

and everything I so often question about myself.

I just don't stop feeling like I

haven't forgot my shivering skin, just can't.

I close my eyes and let

feel flooded by the idea of your white skin and how your life will go.

This represents some closure for me.

And ever so ironically it's a stolen freedom.

Taken like the sun taken by a plant:

Something that belonged with me, completely.

abril|әƃnoɹ

Nowadays I feel like someone broke my leg and the whole world is demanding me to run.

Thermocromatic crystal.

Who would ever enjoy sadness? But sadness makes poetry. I don't enjoy bleeding. Though, if I bleed poetry I will take the risk. Because I enjoy poetry more than I enjoy happiness, because poetry is eternal when happiness is gone before I end this phrase. And everything is temporary, but poetry.

I am gone now, even though your words still make my mood ring turn in to the most awful rainbow. I hated blushing when you talked to me, but I loved the way my heart was about to explode at the same time. You were poetry when you talked, even now that your words are faded with my stoner memory. I have nothing else to say, there's nothing I can miss. But now I will miss feeling something, while I'm immersed in this dull nothingness.

AbrilRouge

Dead words.

You're the agony of my verses and the silence between my legs. You're dead words inside my head, dying every time you turn away. I can never see you in my dreams, it's maybe because I don't know you that well. I often feel like I'm losing my time thinking about you, cause you won't see more that you want to see in me. We can dance like there is no tomorrow, only caring about our dancing tones, turquoise paradise inside of our souls. But you like going around and thinking too much, you like ignoring me like nothing happens, because you say I would do the same. And when I'm sober and I seem not to care about you, you're all that's in my brain. Am I wasting my time or am I losing my head?

AbrilRouge.

52 week photography challenge: Week4- Flowers.

This time I decided to concentrate more on the shape and  the composition rather than the color, this is why I chose black and white. Hope you like it!

Roses.

Daisies.

Foliage.

Calla.

Hydrangeas.

Kalanchoes.

Geranium.

abril|әƃnoɹ

Throw me back.

Today I felt empty again. I keep feeling like I can't talk to anyone, so I talk to you in that segment of time that splits slumber and awakening. I hate that the years have passed and that I can still feel like I have something left to tell you, right before you disappear and I have to go back to reality and deal with disgrace.
Where are you? In my mind. I crave, I starve for that feeling I had back then, all you made me feel, so authentical, so fresh, pure, hurtful, tragic and then... Nothing.
And I keep feeling like there's something I haven't told you yet.
Did I tell you that I loved you? 'Cause I did, like I've never loved again. The passion... I can't help but feeling like there's something wrong with me, 'cause I can't feel it anymore. Even if I try to catch it, like your breath when you talk too close and I feel your  warmth on my skin, it just flies away. I just fly away, like a paper plane. Like a duck migrating. Like a fly looking for shit to land on. Like now... Wait. I was talking about you.
I can't even write anymore, all that comes out is this graphic prose, as if every bone that holds my flesh was powder and I couldn't hold myself for long. I hate myself, I have to confess this before it becomes unreal. It's like I'm in a house and I've lived here for years. I'm tired. Let me out. Not even I think I'm right, so don't dare to tell me you did it because I told you to. Can't you see I am such a negative person? Why would you let yourself be influenced by me? Don't make a fool of yourself.
Sorry. Don't ask the ill to shut up when they hurt.
I wasn't ill when I talked to you, I was exploding, like thousands of volcanos of vodka, and you were an alcoholic crowd gathered around my crater, opening your mouth to receive the sacred blessing of my outrageous personality.
We were two holes on the earth.  I passed by your house when I was in school, everyday for six years and we came to meet so far from where we had thousands of possibilities of coming across each other. And we weren't holes anymore, we turned into the highest mountains, and there was snow over our summits.
Tonight I'm wearing that old damn shirt you gave me when I was at your house. I remember like it was yesterday... You and I at truancy class, naked in the shower. I gave you a hat, one you wore for a couple picturesque scenes of you masterfully playing the guitar. We smoked pot in that broken glass bong you insisted on taping over and over, because we were so young and poor at that time.
I hate everything, I have to confess this before it becomes unreal. I am like a house a man built with his own hands one day of january. A house that was always in the same fucking street, in the suburbs of some forgotten city.
But you're still my finest muse.

abril|әƃnoɹ

Strangers.

We haven't taken much seriously the fact that we hurt each other so badly. And it's fine, cause the branches of the trees don't have eyes, and they don't look back to see how much they've grown and what leaves have died in the process. They just grow new leaves, and I write new stories. 

I am not a tree, not even a branch. And I can still remember you. No matter if I like it or not. I do, my bodie does remember. Somewhere deep inside me, there's a guy jacking off to the soft porn videos we recorded in a jacuzzi, at a motel with a name in Spanish, the name of a girl no one ever loved. Somewhere else, even deeper, another guy jacks off with two videos, videos of us making out with strangers. It's weird how you can lose control of the deepest feelings, just as if it happened outside your flesh. But I'm okay, you are too. And we write new stories. We are cold, after boiling like geisers and reaching the highest. We come down, because everything that rises, falls equally.

You were loved, like a girl named Valerie with a boyfriend named Joe. Like a shore without rocks, and a sea dancing in front of it, with turquoise movements and white clouds watching them from above. 

I have no poetry left inside, but I can easily imagine this words forming picturesque landscapes into your mind. I certainly do. 

I make echoes, they sound empty inside your ears, but I fight a war that remains unholy, and it seems like I can't make mistakes. I fight a war that remains unholy, and I am a stranger to myself, I am a stranger to the world, but I recognize my face reflected in antique mirrors and songs that I heard some weeks ago. 

Everyday I live different emotions, and I think this isn't bad, because a guy named Andy said once that something is special if you do it once in your life or absolutely everyday. Otherwise it loses its magic. I think he's right, just like everyone who talks from experience. 

I wake up too early to notice I'm already late, I like all colors of flowers from pink to gray, and no one has pity there's only the illusion of always counting on yourself.