19. English and Spanish student. Photography. Television. Writing. Reading. Other fun stuff. Everything you see is original unless otherwise stated.
La muerte de Ofelia
Your river is dry, Ophelia.
Your death is not mine, Ophelia.
Your river, in dreams, caresses
your skin, Ofelia. Caresses my skin, Ophelia.
Your waters, it stirs, Ofelia. But it is mud, Ophelia.
Your river, in dreams, is brown Ophelia.
Your river, in me, is gone, Ophelia.
Your river is dry, Ophelia.
Drown elsewhere, Ophelia.
Drown in spring, Ophelia.
When the damn opens and the waters flood at your will, Ophelia.
When the damn opens and the Rio Grande 5 inches fills,
Ophelia.
Sepa quien se detiene maravillado, tremulo de ternura y de gratitud, ante cualquier lugar de la obra de esos felices, que yo también me detuve ahí, yo el abominable.
Know this whoever stops marveled, trembling from tenderness and gratitude, before any place of the work of these happy men, that I too stopped there, I the abominable.
The knife has been whetted.
Revenge is afoot and my blood sings joyfully at your coming.
At your coming.
Slow steps, you take.
Shall the bird bring you forth.
Shall I send for it to fly you here, to my home,
in the midst of the sea, the sky and the earth.
No, you do not know. There is no bird.
There are no dreams.
I am no Chaucer!
My house is made of lies and streams!
But there, there, let us think of the fair;
your fair eyes, your fair skin, bloodless flesh.
Bloodless kin.
The knife has been whetted and it shall pass through you.
It shall pierce fire onto your swirling iris.
It shall do forever more, what you did not do.
It shall do with you a gust of dwindling ashes
that I can inhale and forever make me whole.
Never again alone.
Escucho sonidos de los cuales entiendo pocos,
pero los que me cosquillean el oido me recuerdan de ti;
de tu sonrisa muda y de tu canto de locos.
Yet you never laughed or sang; you and I, we
never listened. But I listen now and I can’t hear
your phantasmagorical breath, your galavanting stealth.
Y haci te escucho marcharte sin haberte conocido,
sin haber escuchado tus rimas de enamorados,
sin sentido, color de rosa.
Dreamers make grandiloquent goals.
I write dreams out of grandiloquent goals,
because I am no dreamer,
nor do I take action upon grandiloquent goals.
They stay there in a clear jar, the dreams
written with blue ink on crumpled wide-ruled paper scraps.
Written cursive “One day”s form smug smiles and laugh at my passivity,
then they go on and frolic with one another.
Sounds of sandpaper and grandiloquent sex
grandiloquently I ignore.
The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.
Nineteen
19 years old, he awoke to the realization that he was not where he wanted to be.
He wasn’t where he wanted to be.
He wasn’t where he wanted to be.
He would be where he wanted to be except he didn’t know where he wanted to be. This was his most insatiable dilemma, his and nearly every other nineteen year old on the verge of an identity crisis. He knew what he was going through. He’d seen enough movies to know that this type of crisis would eventually pass, after college or after Zach Braff found Natalie Portman. He would eventually stop moping about his inability to do anything and do something. He would eventually begin a rigorous exercise routine and regain the leg and dignity he lost to the wicked monster of the sea. He would eventually stop reading novels to suck the existentialism out of them. He would eventually get over Transcendentalism and he would eventually understand what the transparent eyeball is. He would eventually, too, have the courage to eat a peach. He would eventually, too, stop quoting poems in everyday conversation with women as they talk about Renaissance painters. He would eventually loose interest in photography. He would eventually loose interest in filmmaking. He would eventually understand that his writing was not cut out for film criticism. He would eventually understand that his writing was not cut out for anything.
No, no intentes disculparte
No juegues a insistir
Las excusas ya existían antes de ti
No, no me mires como antes
No hables en plural
La retórica es tu arma más letal
Voy a pedirte que no vuelvas más
Siento que me duelas todavía aquí
Adentro
Y que a tu edad sepas bien lo que es
Romperle el corazón a alguien así
No se puede vivir con tanto veneno,
La esperanza que me dio tu amor
No me la dio más nadie,
Te juro, no miento
No se puede vivir con tanto veneno
No se puede dedicar el alma
A acumular intentos
Pesa más la rabia que el cemento
Espero que no esperes que te espere
Después de mis 26
La paciencia se me ha ido hasta los pies
Y voy deshojando margaritas
Y mirando sin mirar
Para ver si así, te irritas y te vas
Voy a pedirte que no vuelvas más
Siento que me duelas todavía aquí
Adentro
Y que a tu edad sepas bien lo que es
Romperle el corazón a alguien así
No se puede vivir con tanto veneno
La esperanza que me dio tu amor
No me la dio más nadie
Te juro, no miento
No se puede morir con tanto veneno
No se puede dedicar el alma
A acumular intentos
Pesa más la rabia que el cemento
“No” -Shakira
So I did something today.
And I’d really appreciate if more people followed me into doing this.
If you see posts tagged “suicide”, you find several messages of people who are thinking of killing themselves.
I send all of them messages telling them they shouldn’t kill themselves, because they’re beautiful, everyone is.
Even if you think you don’t have the time, or whatever, could you reblog it so that more people could see?
Thanks.
No one deserves to die.
(via theidiotmanifesto-deactivated20)
Are full of passionate intensity.
