Poesía
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Llevo escribiendo poesía desde 2009, con aún 13 años, gracias a mi profesor de lengua, Don Tomás; bueno, técnicamente, era maestro, pues era de la vieja escuela y sólo podía enseñar hasta 2ºESO, lo que equivalía a 8º de la antigua EGB. Don Tomás (que comparte con mi tutor de 2º de primaria el honor de ser los únicos maestros a los que he tratado de Don), decidió que para enseñarnos las figuras retóricas sería más ameno escribir pequeños poemas donde las utilizaramos; así, cada semana nos ponía como deberes usar ciertas figuras en un poema que luego le entregaríamos. Pondría la mano en el fuego afirmando que fui la única de mi clase que descubrió en estos ejercicios una afición y pasión, y, a pesar de haber tenido años sin inspiración, hoy en día sigo escribiendo. Me preocupo menos de la métrica, de la rima, a veces incluso las ignoro; las figuras me salen solas, quizá no sepa decir a primera vista qué es cada una, pero las he usado. Hoy he querido empezar el pequeño proyecto de compartir aquí mis poemas más apreciados, antiguos y nuevos.
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I look up at him, his face nothing but a hazy memory. His head is tilted down towards me and I think about how odd it must be for him too. If we kissed, would we find each other's lips? Would it be as natural as breathing? He's mere inches from me and just the presence of his body is suffocating. I don't even have to see his face to know how well he makes my body react. Goosebumps trickling down my arms, and the hairs on the back of my neck rising like sunflowers facing the sun. It's as if I can really see his face. His features and the looks he gives. It's so familiar, so in-tune with me, that I feel like I've always seen it. I can feel his eyes set on me, my figure under his gaze. I can feel the tension in the air and I'm not even sure if I'm breathing. "That necklace around your neck," he scoffs. "What about it?" I ask, my voice low. "I've seen it every single time I've seen you and it drives me insane. It's the one thing I can see below your face." Something clicks into place for me. The puzzle pieces align, and I feel alive. "Then take it off and put your hand there, I can wear that instead," I grin. __ Scarlett Moore. A university student trying to make it past the struggles of life, friends, and a love life labeled hell. But to her aid, a man from her dreams clouds her mind and a little too much of her heart. Every night he visits her, comforting her from a cruel world and harsh realities. The life she lives with him in her sleep becoming a little too real. Just how attached is she to a man who isn't even real? What happens when she can't tell the difference between a memory and a fantasy? __

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