How To Take The Headache Out Of Poetry

Me......

I lock myself in my room looking for lyrics, knowledge, facts, things, poetry, music, novels, illusions, and I end up writing lyrics, facts, ideas, things, poems, novels, and living each letter.

I try to objectify, but I can only complicate things, I complicate the smallest detail, and I'm not a detail oriented person, but I like to complicate things, I like to contradict.

I like to write, I like my messy corner, my scattered sheets, my broken chair, my dirty monitor, my keyboard without letters.

I like the darkness of my room, the smell of mine, the noise of the avenue of cars, I like the my sound of my adoration, my regee, my guitar solo, the beat of the music.

I like the little concentration I do and the divine inspiration, ardent inspiration, not good writings, but well spoken, personal things I show half the world.

I bet on the last one and I win with him, I like living, I like to enjoy, and I'm in love.

I lock myself I write and I write, meaningless, meaningless, for writing, for loving writing, for loving myself and for trying to be somebody.

My room, my smell, my things, my friends, my boyfriend, my family, the world in general and God, reasons for my inspiration.

That never ceases, that doesn't stop...until the end is over.