Bohemian Poesia Y 3D Arte

In memory of poet Charles Bukowski and EAch ONE of us who escaped AA meetings.

Who are you, my friend?
The frightening child under the bed?
The perfect Cristian kid,
Or the Babylon whore
Who played with the priest.
Who are you today?
A freighting child with angry issues
The Fool, or the adult with drug addition?
I’m them and more.
But today we are
a shatter mirror in the floor.

M.Moreno

“Hoy llueve sobre el umbral del tiempo, hoy llueve sobre el alma mía. Oh! Tiempo que se mezcla entre el alma mía. Se me confunde el tiempo: entre el amor y los desprecios. Entre la indiferencia de perderlo todo o ganarlo todo. Hoy estoy lejos, corro, corro ! Huyó pero no quiero alejarme. No quiero perderme entre el umbral del tiempo y la indiferencia a lo que vivo. Mezclo colores y se pierden. Se pierden el verde entre los azules y el amarillo se ensucia como el alma mía. Al final todo es Condición y Soledad. Hoy llueve y hace frío en el alma mía.” @aryes97

There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I’m too tough for him
I say, stay in there
I’m not going to let anybody see you
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I pur whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke
And the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks
Never know that he’s in there.There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I’m too tough for him
I say
Stay down, do you want to mess me up?
You want to screw up the works?
You want to blow my book sales in Europe?
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes
When everybody’s asleep
I say, I know that you’re there
So don’t be sad
Then I put him back
But he’s singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die
And we sleep together like that with our
Secret pact
And it’s nice enough to make a man
Weep
But I don’t weep
Do you? -Charles Bukowski

“There was a time when I wrote poetry, those times when the world was simpler and the direction was a straight line. When I grew up I lost all my writing and the lines turned like a tumbleweed. The city, its lights and its noise, it is impossible for me to maintain a single thought. Sometimes when silence reigns in insomnia, bohemian nights awaken and some poetry come to a piece.”
Mayra Moreno