Stupid
You can see the mirror
and love the reflection.
You can see your faking eyes
covering your fucking lies.
The past, the present, and the future are trash.
The head of this conspiracy they can't smash.
Heart and brain are formed under a cup of ice.
You'll never can get of my soul the price.
I hate the forms
of all the space.
Feeling like a peon
in a big game of chess.
The century it's coming now,
the persons are like a bot,
and their stupid faces
erasing the chances.
Where the hell are your brain?
Where the hell are your mind?
Can continue with this lies?
Revolutions needs to have.
Massive attck,
never watch back.
The love comes on,
stupid faces doing bad.
The past, the present, and the future are trash.
The head of this conspiracy they can't smash.
Read this text to break the rules
listen to me and draw the trash.
Nobody can with our house.
Where the hell are your brain?
Where the hell are your mind?
If we are united,
we can beat.
(Ojo: Requiere revisión)
and love the reflection.
You can see your faking eyes
covering your fucking lies.
The past, the present, and the future are trash.
The head of this conspiracy they can't smash.
Heart and brain are formed under a cup of ice.
You'll never can get of my soul the price.
I hate the forms
of all the space.
Feeling like a peon
in a big game of chess.
The century it's coming now,
the persons are like a bot,
and their stupid faces
erasing the chances.
Where the hell are your brain?
Where the hell are your mind?
Can continue with this lies?
Revolutions needs to have.
Massive attck,
never watch back.
The love comes on,
stupid faces doing bad.
The past, the present, and the future are trash.
The head of this conspiracy they can't smash.
Read this text to break the rules
listen to me and draw the trash.
Nobody can with our house.
Where the hell are your brain?
Where the hell are your mind?
If we are united,
we can beat.
(Ojo: Requiere revisión)



Aquí guardo fragmentos de mis días: anécdotas que me han formado, pensamientos que se resisten al silencio, destellos de oraciones que encuentro en los bordes de la rutina.
Escribir, para mí, no es un oficio sino una forma de respirar. Cada texto nace del impulso de entenderme y, tal vez, de reconciliarme con el mundo.
No busco atención o aplausos; solo dejar constancia de lo que alguna vez fui, mientras sigo aprendiendo a mirar con calma.
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