Poems
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What if everything you know, see, and feel is not the reality you think it is? And what if the very concept of illusion is, paradoxically, an illusion itself? The Mirage in the Desert Imagine you’re trekking through a vast desert. The sun blazes overhead, and in the distance, you see the shimmering image of
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Sin ascends through my veins, though I believe in your creed’s sacred refrains. The silent empire is a cemetery of gazes leading to captivity. Your eyes illuminate my reflection, your tongue’s mirror is my affection, Memory, anxious, keeps your kisses near, while the clock kisses time, year after year, and time, indifferent, doesn’t reciprocate. The
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At the instant of your absence, I hear the unheard speaking, I walk among evaporated steps and rise between dreams. A song awakens me without emotion, yet unforgettable, like a dream so fragile as air, student of its wind. There’s nothing before me, only a suspended moment while outside time runs wild and beats at
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The symptom of a life well lived sails in an ocean of souls. Dressed to find the tears that learn from the absence of paradise, Sweet signals indulge, hiding behind shadows of content. Layers of sound that depend on the spring, Midnight verbs too cold to care. Lessons in the temple too tired to learn,
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Me quedo quieto en la orilla, observando el vaivén de las olas y notando cómo llegan hasta cierto punto de la playa. Esto me lleva a reflexionar sobre los límites naturales y la forma en que la naturaleza sigue patrones en sincronía con el universo. En ese movimiento constante, veo la mano de un Dios
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A Faustian bargain, ambition’s price, Shadows of self, truth hidden in disguise. A soul’s transaction, a hollowed cry, Echoes in fog where illusions lie. A body adrift, a vessel torn, Veiled in silence, in fragments worn. Whispers of void, a mind’s lament, Dissonant voices in the abyss sent. The mirror lies, the faces split, Restless
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My body, a marionette with severed strings. I drift like a ghost through a fog of memories. I walk. This body, not mine. This soul, adrift in time. Haunting echoes hide in hollow halls. I am not here. I am not whole. I am not seen. The night breathes softly against my skin. The mirror’s
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Entre la desconexión y la creación: una travesía hacia el autodescubrimiento Corteza gemida, madera torcida. Desenvuelve entrañas, abre mil heridas. Sacrifico ideas y el tiempo no vuelve. Son miles de notas envueltas en redes. Mi filosofía es abierta, libreta abierta en progreso. El cuerpo me sostiene transmutando todos mis huesos. Sin aire suelo quedarme, no
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By Brian J Gonzalez Martinez Photo by Fons Heijnsbroek, abstract-art on Unsplash What counts as art? Art is not a static definition but an ever-evolving process, just like life. In my poetry, I experiment with language to break boundaries, and I believe art does the same. It connects us to something deeper, something unspoken. Art is
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I want to burn the world, it is still not used to me. My guess is it will never be. I am eternally drawn to flames, consuming fire that never ends. Minute making magic that keeps me sane. One lost love in a tragic scene. The in, in the between. Summer memories of long lost
One Way Life 