Poetry fluctuates in me.

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It is in bed where my deepest desires are expressed; thoughts that are housed inside my chest, that are allowed to beat in sync with the words that are drawn in jet ink. I make endless verses; unfinished, often without cohesion, difficult to interpret by foreign understanding. Well, they are allegorical verses of my regrets and desires. I rejoice in the feeling that my poetic prose is mine alone; although I know that death lurks vigilantly, and tries to take away from me the pleasure that these hands judiciously perform. It is poetry, the unexpected dream, a lilting voice that sighs and whispers in my ears the words that I dare not pronounce out loud. It is the same one that when versed does not require any exact understanding; because it is art, and art is feeling something for that which cannot be explained. Poetry and music fluctuate in me like intoxicating magic that allows my unusual musings to give free rein on paper through an endless number of characters that must form a spontaneous beauty. And that is where it suddenly visits me, in the room of a house that does not know art. It is at that moment where the muse allows my heart to beat uncontrollably, until I write the declaration of what is inside me. Until, finally, it becomes a beam of light that slides through an invisible window, making room for a greater form of expression.