El Castillo de Sueños

Author's note: This was first my stream of consciousness, which began as ramblings thrown into a paragraph, but Mr. Johnson helped me clean and freshen it up. This also represents one of my own healing processes I went through last year.

As each step prolongs,

and my heavy feet stomp,

to the top I go,

my faithful expedition.

Each stair is a memory,

each memory a weakness.

This castle tests me.

My limits, and my hope.

The more I travel onward,

the more this place strips of me.

First all the physical, for no

protection is sought here.

Clothes turn to cinder,

but I do not blink.

I do not pause my breathing.

A soldier in battle is what I am.

Only that this

Battle is for my sanity.

Mental walls come crashing

landing in the seething waters below.

For these spiraling steps

start to extend, as if never to finish.

With the coils of transportation

come whirs of thoughts.

People, faces, beings, places.

All of my past. Each cold foot-fall

sends freezing pain up through,

but the wind calms it.

The wind.

The breath of a loved one.

Calming the nerves.

Up I go. Still climbing.

Reaching this castle.

My personal dungeon.

My lovely escape.

Two Majesties

Two majesties come to rest
As their worlds merge into one
Staring at each other
No restenment
Just acceptance of the others power

Wisconsin Wild World

Author's Note: After seeing John Wilde's Wisconsin Wild World, this huge inspiration came to me for the poem. I saw the artist as having kind of a higher position than the people below him and him pointing towards the sky. Then on one side of his hand is what looked like reality and what life really is, and on the other is probably how the way artist's view the world with the natural beauty of human body (thus the bare women) and nature at its prime.  

My hands are the creator of this world that I in vision, and call my own. 

My eyes are the leader to an existence none of other can view. 

I am the color and the basics. 

The illustrator of nature's true form. 

Paint runs through my veins and exits through my brush.  

Strokes of light and darkness are born. 

Artist is my name. 

Artist is my label.

Desert

Author's Note: I was watching a movie (don't recall the name) of  a man who strives in the desert and forges for food like an animal. Thinking about what that life could like and with the imagination of my mind I started to compare deserts to life in which this piece was born. 

With this last stumble I break

In the middle of the desert

With wind of disdain whipping my eyes

Stinging as the scorpion's tail of others

Milestones become mirages

No longer can I bear the heat of hatred on my back

Nor the cold of people's hearts when the stars seem just in reach

My knees plant in the sand, then my elbows follow

Finally my head comes to a stop on the surprisingly cool sand

The sun seems to have mercy and pulls back its rays

Cactus wave goodbye

No more sand will penetrate my eyes

Which are now forever closed

 

Author's note: While writing a word association I got to my native country of Chile, I then noticed that some nostalgia leaked into my mind and I decided to write my journal entry on it.

Colors flash, as do the smiles of street vendors while they hold their beloved merchandise up to share with the world. Next to them are the tiny shacks of homes and it front a table with food, not just food anymore. The pride of their grubby fingers making something that could become so wanted. Full of unknown history, this country tucked away in between the Andes and the Pacific ocean. Breath taking view of snow on top of mountains and right along side a white beach filled with people,  my people. One of the most famous languages in the world rolls off their tongue with such an ease that it turns into an art of pronunciation. Turn around and the world's best classic flavor is being made from their bare hands, a deep burgundy wine. With the rich taste settling on your dried taste buds. This is what the longest country in the world is, tall spirits of it's people and culture that spans half a globe and brings its people together.

No Longer

Love; 

Fake as the summer is cold

False as the clear sky is dark

Misleading as if it brings happiness

But feels like all

No more of those butterflies

I will miss you dear friends

Queen of Flowers

We are all but a rose

Magnificent creatures

The Queen of Flowers

What about these draw so many?

The mysterious connection to romance?

A symbol of tragedy?

Or the fact that it shows who we are as a whole

Beautiful in the inside

Petals blooming

Petals blooming, red passion burning

When life starts to dwindle

So do our parts

Falling and placing themselves at nature's mercy

Thorns thrust to protect us

But not always do they succeed

We are all delicate, fierce lovers of the world