I write you poems from a small room at eleven at night
waiting for good things as if they were going to happen
hope has me tied,
dreams like a fool
but i write to you
and i'll continue doing it
even when the wind blows the
pages away
even when you don't remember my body
my soul
my heart
and nothing more.

I have a good poem in my hands and my fingers are going numb

i have a couple of poems,
i think they are bad
i wrote them with more than just love.

How disastrous a poet can be,
a fool in love
writing with the heart,

a sad being writing
with fire that consumes his life

there is good poetry from time to time,
there are good feelings in
this being,
there is a certain melancholy,
there is something and maybe it is wrong
there is a lot and...