Compartimento 13

Estoy haciendo hábito en llorar en el camino a casa. En no tener que esconder tras los negros cristales las lágrimas cuyos testigos son el frío y el cemento a estas horas de la madrugada. Dos piezas faltan en el puzzle de mi pecho, con formas únicas y luz extraña. Una paloma aplastada contra en la carretera. Cuánto tiempo hay que vivir, (¿!Cuántas puñaladas!?) para ver algo así y sentirse no sentir nada. Mas cada día que me siento crecer y me miro en el espejo buscando tu reflejo, solo encuentro nuevas formas de echarte de menos. Nuevas formas profundo en mí engendradas de quererte un poco más, de oír tu corazón palpitante, (el más bello de los ritmos de entre todos tus compases) meciéndome desde el eco de mi propio pecho. (El frío no era tan punzante hace un año, pero amá, vuelvo a estar sola en la cama) Sangro en pétalos de rosa por cada herida no cerrada. Agnes  Hightopp

Hello my dear friend Oh... where to start Well, It's been quite some time Since my whole life fell apart And you were not there to see it Nor to hug me while I cried And I know I never told you You got mad because of that But sill wonder, should I have? Cause I got the impression that Our friendship wouldn't go further Than any abandoned dead end path. But please my friend Oh please! I beg you, don't get me wrong I still love you, always will And I swear I always have But we are no longer twelve And you're to accept we've grown apart And this means I'd love a coffee But not a day after day talk Yet the memories are glowing In the corners of our minds Of long evenings in your room Popcorns, movies, tons of laugh And that day I'd always treasure When we run free under the snow And I felt the warmth of friendship After so long in the cold And don't worry my dear friend Others did hug me when I was sad And they loved me, made

It's the year 2018, I'm nineteen years old, and I feel like life got lost between paperwork. I feel that bureaucracy is a dementor that sucks away the soul of almost everything that's worth it. That nowaday's individualism has lead to a society in which we're told that the only real love is self love, so we don't hesitate when turnings our backs to each other. That pursuing something moved by emotions is jumping out of a plane with no parachute on. They make us believe that if our dreams don't match with the options of the form, they're not valid, they cannot become true, they're not real; or as they say, realistic. And so we all end up trapped in this conveyer belt, in which our actions are reduced to decide between the options they show us in every planned stop of the way. And as time moves forward, the fear of getting out of the paved path increases. So we just stuck with the status quo, hoping that someday, the realistic course we picked fro