Falling Action
My words heard my cries
When no one was listening
The paper felt my tears
When the world gave no sympathy
The pen was my refuge
When the pain contained me
The chapters knew
That my life
Wasn't a story to write
Wasn't a happy ending
The plot knew
My heavy conflicts
A horrendous tragedy
Too dark to be known
Life wasn't a series of rhymes
Of sequences that correspond
To my sufferings
Not a book that ends,
But starts—
At its exposition
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The Passionate Corpse
PoesíaCorpses are gross, dirty and foul-smelling. At times, they're scary to look at. But curiousity enthralls upon something unpleasant. Amidst the ugliness, it satisfies the dark part of our soul-not meant to be human. Something about it is unnatural...
