When It Rains

Emanations from a desperate mind

There used to be a library in the middle of the sea. Almost touching the starry sky, as shelves stood the trees. A library that holds every story to be seen.

But you found it empty, in complete disuse. You're looking for a single small, pale book. In this vast desolation, it's waiting for you.

Written in gold, it's called "The things you like." quite obvious for those know-alls who don't care or mind. However, you want to learn more about your essence.

The library is endless; you shudder for what's lurking beneath the cold waves. With strong winds, you let the small boat move again. Maybe the next row of trees might have a clue as to where to find your soul.

Lots of artist sing about love, woe and abstract perceptions. Hovewer, I propose to sing about mundane things, such as that slice of pizza that calls upon you at night when you're 12 beers deep, or that thing that lives in the walls and steals your left socks.

Life is to short to worry about emotions.

Have you ever wanted to be someone else?

I'm now a proud jellyfish; don't mess around. Mama and Papa used to fight a lot. One day I put my foot down, But he didn't care; he's a brutal man.

After that, Cindy woke up. Mama, from that day on, called me love. She told me that I'm her little princess and to be strong. To not look behind and keep walking non-stop

She taught me how to paint my face with a smile. Now I feel well and alive. If I look at my reflection, I can't see a broken man. Sometimes I wonder why I had to endure all of that.

The calm before the storm.

Waiting in vain, bound to a chair.

Is it me? or the walls are now green?

Why do dreams taste sweet?

Today is a new day, but I feel the same.

I try to run, but my legs just walk.

Why can't I write? Whom must I pray?

"She walked along the beach,

A small breeze made her dress swing.

She was alone, under the morning glow.

She was waiting for her friend to come."

What shall I write? Which ink should I use?

I weep for I don't know.

I don't want to, but I need to punch the wall.

"Until an aparition came,

in the form of a yellow grand hotel.

A majestic sight stood erect over the waves.

Hypnotic, as if the hotel were calling her name."

I sight in frustation; I can't wait.

Maybe tomorrow I'll finish a play.

But today, it's difficult for me to rest.

Orange crescent moon

My dear friend is near.

But it is so far away.

I saw her last night.

By the side of the road.

How many years have passed?

How many tears had I wept?

No matter what choice I make,

I forgot to pray.

How much does the guilt weigh?

How much time passed? Or I ate.

Now she's a shadow of herself.

While a hole grows larger in my chest.

I want to sleep by her side.

Hiding from undefined mistakes,

For once, to feel rested and well.

Again, I say, so fair, lady.

Eyes as blue as the sky,

With a charming, big smile,

Her red lips against a skin so pale.

I should forgive everyone.

Even those who broke my entrails

Because God is looking up there.

While the moon is my only friend.

The modern prometheus is a story about a neglected child trying to make sense of life while being outcasted by everyone, meanwhile the father is living its best life.

Dreamy Smiles

Dreamy smiles, Nice cotton hugs, Smoking cigarettes at night, Watching the rain fall.

Inside the bed-sheets Letting time pass by, One second feels like being in Mars. One kiss is like being alive.

Weekend promises are now today. No more poisonous grey wait, Let the feeling take you away. Let the raw passion make you whole again.

Now they're alone, Cuddling with eyes closed, The storm might reign outside, But their world sleeps with them tonight.

While the rain pours

empty, wet street We were under a robust tree. An umbrella made of leaves

Silver-gray sky Waiting for the storm to pass by It was in vain, but we had to try.

Being close to each other We start to share our warm Our lips are now in touch.

The storm may stop But ours has just begun. Time will tell if everything has a point.

Writing dialog 2:

Two friends were drinking ice tea on top of a bridge, overlooking a dead road.

-"So... how was your week?" Asked Suzzane, mixing some sugar in the cold infusion.

-"Nothing out of the ordinary; I went to a cemetery," said John, sitting on the bridge's guardrail.

-"Thank god you didn't do anything weird! what happened? was someone you knew?"

-"No, the professor recommends that I see some scultures for my anatomy assignment," answered John nonchalantly, serving himself another glass of tea.

-"Let me get this right," said Suzzane, with a contagious smile. "When someone says sculture, do you think of cemeteries?"

She had a quirk when talking about something funny; she would move her hands as if they were a tennis fan, moving his head from one opposite side of the field to the other in mere seconds.

-"No, it wasn't my first pick; museums aren't cheap, you know." John almost choked on his tea. He was about to ask Suzzane about her week when suddenly heaven became real and in technicolor, a great roar could be heard from miles, John almost lost his balance from the guardrail, the silvery light became lighting shooting upwards, breaking that afternoon's peace in the valley, shaking bones, breaking glasses, and damaging eardrums. The rocket, the last wonderful thing humanity created, was now in high orbit, leaving a white, fluffy cloud where it once flew.

They were rigid, looking upwards, not in glee as Suzzane's little brother, but with disdain. The first rockets were a great talking point among the people of the valley, some sort of privilege and pride they share and show like a medal to the region, "They are close to the stars!!" Would said journalists but now it's more like a nuisance. The Mac's and Roudy's were the first families to leave, followed by the Carlson's and the Evans. Soon the grand majority of the town was a collection of empty spaces, lost in time while the future was roaring and flying no more than 6 miles from them.

Suzzane broke the silence.

-"The old tongues said that winter and fall were below 68 degrees, and that the rockets brought longer days and shorter nights." Said Suzzane contemplating the amber liquid flowing from the broken glass.

-"I went to the cemetery because it's quiet, no packs of people, no flashes, no laughs. I mean, what kind of museum puts on display bright colors and chalkboards? Cemeteries have that hidden effect on us; it's no place to be joking; it's solemn. A radiography of time, where different art styles and movements solidified for eternity, did you know that the real Gioconda was burned for her smile? Cemeteries have this aura of the past, the unbearable past, where all the bad, decadent, and violent were normalized, a place where museums go to die, where memories are set in stone, crimes and regrets are visible for you to be horrified or wonder, not only did I finish my sketches, I came with horrible conclusions."

But before John could elaborate, another wonder of humanity rose free from gravity. A deafening chorus made by millon dammed souls.

In order for something to prosper, other things or someone must be wretched.

-"I'm sorry about your father. I know things seem bleak, but he will get a job really soon." Said Suzzane, enveloping the broken glass in newspaper.

-"Thanks, it was a long week." John sighted, jumped from the guardrail to Suzzane, helped her put the glasses in the basket, and they started to descend the bridge.

-"My little brother is obsessed with space; he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up."

-"Good for him, I guess; at least he doesn't need to commute that much from here."

And they walked together, alone, in the middle of the dead road to their homes.