I made you a bow of balloons.
I made you a bow of balloons.
Puncturing a balloon does not assure you that it will explode,
that loses the air,
that deflates.
Maybe you bleed a little,
drip a few times and slowly bleed.
Bust a piece of wood and splinter all your fingers,
the whole hand: irritable.
Hit a glass and cracking your hands and not the glass.
Inflate colorful bubbles,
paint the sky blue iris;
wet some warm water
the opening you have from east to west;
in the back.
Sink your face in salt water,
swim for a while with alligators and drool;
deepen your chest
and inadvertently drowning the sick man in a bed.
Go to the sea,
swallow the sand,
try stars;
catch snakes that smile when you take them out of the water.
Caress your hair,
kiss you fast one last time;
you say goodbye with the promise to return;
but I already broke so many times, I do not want to rain again.
I have tense muscles,
forgetting is an active work task
and remember a delirium.
Each memory is a nail;
how you get a nail with another nail if the two are buried in the skin.
Pinching a heart is like clicking a balloon:
One dies of love and the other knowing that it is fragile,
he lets himself fall into anyone's arms;
the heart swells, the balloon deflates.
The air is missing both;
one turns purple,
post-mortem
Another darkens
or maybe I accidentally confused the order.
The two throw themselves into the sky:
One falls slowly, perhaps it flies away;
the other if it does not fall into the right arms
it becomes tiny, opaque rubies.
The ink wine of beautiful colors;
a dark red
That smears the left side of my shirt.
You go.
He had made a bow of balloons for you to enter.
Now everyone explodes
with every step you take;
going away.
Very colorful story, Love to hear more Poetry
Thanks for reading!
Soon I will continue writing.