"Writing queen, young and sweet only seventeen..."
Listening to an inner voice that constantly allows you to decline its request
is like a picture being blurred.
Knowing that, maybe the confussion may be a consequence of years of repression
and volutary silence.
Sometimes wishing it could keep itself off... well it might work, it had worked before (if my lucidity still makes me recall past voices).
It was right this time, like it has always been.
Maybe I just mistrusted because I felt I could do its job more wisely.
I was wrong, so wrong.
I am shamelessly predictable... still think there´s a lot of things "I should´ve known better".
You see... I´ve discovered brilliant things because of it.
There is nothing like a cloudy day to enjoy the coldness of this world by facing it with a warm imperfect smile.
There is nothing like climbing up the darkest side of the moon wearing nothing but a
There is nothing like a passing afternoon to delineate the sky with blood red words and ease white souls lines.
Will I ever dare underestimating you?
Would I forgive myself for doing it once again?
You see, I am human.
Observing me under the glass of humanity, I am nothing but a coffee bean getting lost between the aroma of cheaper beverages.
I know I taste good but, will the coofee machine operator find me before my perfection dies?
I believe I do not care if he does or not.
You see, without coffee there would not be a coffee machine operator.
He depends on me.
I can keep on writing heart breaking idolopoeias* sitting straight, staring with dark eyes and dark hair falling like a cascade below my elbows.
Rosy cheeks and gentle hands stained with black ink.
Looking beautiful as I write.
How could I underestimate you?
Would I let myself forget I did?
You see, I am a woman.
I own you, but I owe you... femenin intuition.
*Idolopoeia: Literary figure that consists in placing in a dead person´s mouth a speech or a dialogue.