 Friends     | A passionate soul, a poet, a soon-to-be-a lawyer, a city biker... and fucking crazyborderline bitch. A pseudo-intellectual with a unquenchable thirst of knolwedge... I write to help me overcome my sickness... http://kathykruger.blogspot.mx/ Orwell was right!!!  BorderlinePoet: IM BACK! 10 years ago • Report • Link 0 BorderlinePoet: Time, realm that holds everything, eon’s mobile picture. In the Time, there are no shapes of human souls. Only the one from the gear between states of life. The Universe; the Been; and the Time: Delitescent, ethereal, infinite. The Time its sited on a bench of the Existence’s Park, waiting for the life or death passes by, while reading the Book of Life. The Time is recumbent, listening to the Destiny, while this, calmly sings to him. BorderlinePoet: Amok Amok-Insanity in a murderous frenzy; My pith transcends to an encounter with your skin, amok. Transcends to each single word been said, to any plaint been moan by a virgin. My skin it’s only a vignette of the universe, a tattooed moon in God’s scapula. Endures to the bites of the madness, transcends to the existence itself. My pith has wings, and it’s like the smoke of the cigarrete I’m smoking with you. Free. BorderlinePoet: Ungraspable Stridentist.... And then, the fury boils in my blood, because I can hear cellos and violins on the silence; when I think of you, and I turn my self into an extint quetzal, the rainforest cries, because I don't have you, and nothing of this is real, it just endures, ungraspable; and I'm still thinking of you, then I look trough the window, to the sky, and I see clouds, then I imagine that we are making love, and we fall asleep, and we dream of I don't know what random things; suddenly I come back to reality, when I see two hummingbirds trough the same window, and everything turns out to be stridentist, like a rattle of my heart when your tongue relish my right earlobe, and I think of you, and my hands are the color of your voice, so deep... And nothing matters now, because, fiercely, you are only a little aria in the opus of my mind, and now, you have become real... BorderlinePoet: Ethereal... Words, being shouted silently. Sounds, full of colors, becoming oil, sliding slowly over the back of my neck. A quill, on fire, pouring out letters, -ashes- melting poetry onto my lower back. My body, has now become ethereal; there is no pain. I can finally breath... |
