Aquel día indignado

LIGHT FROM A MONITOR

I feel I wasted the end of my life sitting at the cold light of this monitor.
I feel the desolate sound of the keys that do not sing, who do not speak, do not laugh, do not embrace.
.. ..
I feel like I spend twenty-four hours sitting here no more than ten fingers move individually, is the fate that I myself have to be forged
murderer of your love to me, your love without me.
.. ..
I have a sonnet of my body distant sedentary an ode to your memory and to fade out of my life.
That turns off sitting here wasting human
without strength or cause to be reborn.
.. ..
Sore hands with nothing to do.
No song.
Without love.
The red eyes of hate or fatigue.
At the end of the day.
Today, for me, are the same.
.. ..
For in the end and dies.
.. ..
The lacrimal cultured sea and storms that choke while never happens, that's not going,
do not forget to remember.
.. ..
The red eyes of hate
or fatigue.
At the end of the day.
Today, for me, are the same.

Cuantas caras que van y vienen y yo extrañando a quien no quiere ser extrañado