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Poem 1
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                                                 (^) {-} Y !!

            I have awaken to my unsustainable lack of confidence that I have for myself, what could be good of this day I don’t understand. To why am I here; to make people laugh, to make the decisions that are important. To what point would a person understand how I feel; to the day of rejoice turn to a gloomy day of remorse. I only look upon my window for help in my ways of asking these things, to push the curtains aside and not rather wait to grip the rope of chain and string. To not play the part of the destruction that has surrounded me; I seek answers from the clouds above to only wonder what there is in my subconscious.

            To the second portion up; of my quarters I look to the floor outside below the construction of these walls that do not let me breath. And see what things could I stare at, to aside my problems which only bother me with bore.
            But what is this I have found my trace towards the house, just at a distance to which my plague will soon vanish.
            
            I disrupt the way of an angel so beautiful that does some what cannot exist; it is the dream that alter my sight to only trick me. But to only further along my view, I do not turn away her eyes are the warmness of summer. Which the far distance plains that has grew long flowers; that yet almost look to reach out for the sky. With their pedals of colorful ways that their dressed, beneath it’s soil to only this shows the mood of  her. To not be disrupted by other forces of nature that cast down on her; with the many continued movements in the wind that she makes.

           Yet to be fragile in a way to not care of what is her outcome in the days that will end for her to bloom, for the coldness of the winter shall have of her to vanish of my sight. But I shall wait for spring, till the coming of the day she open’s herself, from the inside of the walls of the soil.

             It is not simply; for her anxiously to seek, and to disrupt my misery. Yet the feeling of seeing her could take my breath away, to have my heart pounding with this glorious intake towards my insides.
            To turn them in which my speech is lost to only have the choice, to collapse on this rugged floor. Or to the window and unlock the shutter before I die, yet chose to die to catch the full momentum of what had been. To which it can not  be describe by many, but the word which we call love. Brought with which could not bear to see my shadow, and which has not seen a sight of thee. Sure the ways of become true to one another, but giving notice has no exchange in meaning.

            To what points; this theory that is unquestionable could survive the beauty of her. To what expense could I drive myself to run towards a wall, and simply hit it to only revive my attention to reality. That one as myself behind a dirty old window could not seem to exist to another. Perhaps my mind is as thick as the rust upon these windows portray me.
     Only to stand still and never to ask the question what if ? To what you may ask of what I am after I shall conceal the truth, for others to find out only excites me to the last point. That they figure that my ideas of this so called special other, which I some what would like to give my wording of expression towards them. And not be severely rejected and to only continue to be the window again. To only faulting my problems again to despise of them and back in to my bed to weep only to conclude of:   
                                  what if ?

                                                                  Written by: Richard Madrid