Lola Lafonda De Hannah Montana

My writing

The air is held in the stone.
Change your address and find another stone.
Change your address and enter a dark tunnel. There is no exit or possibility of return. The air turns on itself and breaks. Supiros escape from the wounds of the stone.
The sky, sad to undertake this transformation. Want to know how to mourn, but not and only manages to fade.
This is the season of change.
Fall is a treeless wasteland. It is a wilderness inhabited by ghosts.
anyone could walk on this scenario. But it does not. is hidden behind green eyes behind brown eyes.
The music comes from somewhere else, as an unwanted visitor.
Music touches but does not stay. It is too heavy to fall without disturbing the peace of autumn.
How are the stones? Old and dumb.
How is the air? Shaky and fragile.
What are the steps that will not stop? Remained quiet and strange.
Light is only a reflection of what does not. Fall has
stone body injury, broken air, sky fearless, steps mutilated.
Because time does not run without something to bend, without a desire to be inconclusive, but it's dark and fatigue appear to leave a layer of dust on things, as the mirror covers already should not look.
Ghosts do not find their site. Are defeated on the green leaves that were born at the wrong time.
From time to fall, autumn also passes away.

How To Play Dota With Bots

Learning ... Days like BlogDay

Mastering the art of losing is not hard;
many things seem to be made for the purpose
of losing their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accepts
emotion of losing the keys to your house, that silly passing hour.
Mastering the art of losing is not hard.

Now go farther, losing faster:
places, names, and pretend
wherever they go. None of that will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! Also the last or penultimate
my three beloved houses vanished. Mastering the art
loss is not complicated.

lost two cities, both endearing. And what is worse,
a couple of realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
miss them, but it was a disaster.

Even losing you (your loving voice, that
gesture I love) I move to deception. Clearly
to master the art of losing is not so complicated;
though (Notes!) May seem a disaster.

(Elizabeth Bishop, an art )

Wherecan I Get A Hernia

I'm alone.

I write all the pages of the world
read the secret code hidden in the primordial water
sing the new song of the new humanity /
sing a song without time and soak rain
face and the blood of fresh water / the clear water flowing down from the top.

And I ask myself why am I here?
in the desert surrounded by people who do not know.
Do I know these people?, "Around me and talk to me?, Whom do they speak?

I mean these poems in the voice of a bird and the claw of a tiger.
What are these poems?, What is this thing called poetry? Sort
the world and its objects
and put a number to each thing is the religion of the times.
A legion of fans walk behind objects.

Art is the opium of the people say the new pastors
art is there?, Will the people?
where are the pastors of this immense flock of sheep?

Why am I here, why here and not there?
wherever the sun tan female cat's body or beyond
/ where man invents different people every day / every day.

I'm alone I look for love.
I want to be loved.
Will I reach?
Can I achieve this solitude total write the poem? /
that aleph / that unattainable.
Or the love and the desire for sweet
market is working so all my utopia?
oranges, potatoes and apples in your hands dirty and their juices in my body and eyes
admiring my word / my shadows / smoke my castles. Why

birth unlove love and die?, What God of the vanquished?
God tell me why?

I want to be loved / the beloved / the most beloved.
What earthly paradise / revolution / super female / the great dust?
and get you in the high / higher than the heavens fatuous

where are you father?

And men / freedom / the highest ideals / location ... utopia?
What am I doing here at this point
infinitesimal cosmos trying to overcome with words too exhausted?

What about children?, What the blood that occurs as a revolution I longed for?

Man invents religions / mechanisms / speeches / phantasmagoria
why and what the poem?, Where the poetry?
"that arch stretched between two stars illusory?
where the arrow passes through the eternity of moments?

poetry: the dark / light / thought / genius locked in a bottle / everything and nothing.

will it stop one day my word suicide bullet or the murderer?
do you need the poem / poet / the invented / to stop the bullet?
justify that moment "the poem?
"world poverty / hunger / the senseless death?

I'm alone without parents or without children or without loved in the midst of the cosmic night.

I'm shaking.
going to die.

But first let me save! Before

write the poem that will stop the bullet
the infinite sadness of the man! / /

(Aldo Novelli, Before the end )