It seems as though each time we meet, it’s the first time I see:
the first time I saw you I was just trying to find my way.
You treated me like the friend that always knew what to say.
I remember feeling safe, and the special way you would smile at me as we would play.
The first time I noticed the deep-water green of your eyes after floating away from our kiss.When I discovered the truth in your stare I knew, “there are few like this.” And, I feel that in one another’s absence we are missed.
It occurred to me you were there all along,
that ours are like two hearts that sing the same song.
Wrapped up in your embrace, feels like I know where I belong, it makes me feel strong.
To whisper in your ear with the innocence of a child, “will you be mine?”
The moon will change the tide but the waves of our friendship
will return before us, and as before, it will be the first time.
Sabes la verdad que existe en tu corazon,
pero no la quieres escuchar.
Tienes talento,
pero no lo quieres aceptar.
Tienes calidades especiales,
pero no les quieren abrasar.
La vida es una conquista para ganar.
Puedes viajar como una mariposa monarcha,
pero desde tu punto de vista,
dices que tus alas no pueden ahuantar.
Eres capaz de hacerse artista,
pero negas de comprender que tu mano se puede dibujar,
cualquier imágen que tu mente se puede retratar.
La vida es una conquista para ganar.
Detrás de tus ojos, existen paisajes desconocidos,
pero no conoces la combinacion cerebral,
para obtener acceso al hemisferio izquierdo de tu persona.
Mereces la oportunidad,
pero estas inseguro de tu potencial.
Eres suficient fuerte para durar,
pero tienes dudas sobre los resultados de la pelea.
La vida es una conquista para ganar.
Puedes escribir como un poeta,
pero no confias en la profundidad de la tinta.
Tienes palabras en tu boca,
pero no los quieren expresar.
Tus velas estan llenas de viento,
pero no quieres subir la ancla para liberar tu creatividad,
porque no estas familiarizado con los dimensiones de tu perspicacia.
En tus suenos, haz alcanzado la orilla,
pero sin pasion, nunca vas a poder de disfrutar la realizacion de tu conquista.
A poet knows a poet: and you wouldn’t know it if you don’t know it. The poet doesn’t have to speak to be heard, and if he’s out of place, to him, it never seems absurd. You might think it strange, but when One step’s up to the “mic,” it’s only because he has a message worth sharing and a heart full of courage.
A poet knows a poet, because they recognize when a voice is marked by true inspiration. An authentic poet can even perceive the sound of words, which have been copied or stolen. And they appreciate the labor of those artists who must voyage between the physical and the shorn.
When the poet walks, talks, or even stares, he does it more for the feeling than to adorn. The poet never acts against free will, to their kind, the glass is not half empty nor is it half full, theirs are a waterfall of sentiments that spill. One might contemplate the world as it spins. Poets get to glimpse at why things end and how they begin.
The poet knows a poet by the fashion in which, one approaches the world: not as a politician but as a philosopher. He doesn’t just focus on her smile or voluptuous breasts. He peers into her fervor.
The poet can freestyle and retort: he lived through the inferno and has a story that is too introspective for the news to report. The poet is just like the painter or the musician: haunted by visions and sounds. For the poet solitude is not a prison, it’s a wilderness that abounds.
A poet knows a poet, and you wouldn’t know it if you don’t know it. But if by chance you can decipher the value in this message, then, you will understand: that a poet is like a shooting star, full of intergalactic energy. One who is always searching; looking for a better explanation; begging for a deeper meaning. Poets are not satisfied with the entrancing red of the rose. They seek to understand how such a simple thing can invoke so much feeling.
The poet can be a slave to darkness. And yet, her heart would still glow with innocence. They can be as real as they are; be humble in the face of their own destiny; love without measure; and live with a smile, full of tears.
The poet is proud and honest, he knows victory and failure and the face of his joys and fears.
Poetry persists in spite of those who are afraid of the human that stares back at them in the mirror. Perhaps someday, you’ll find yourself listening to one of us with your own ear: poetically translating vast and various images of feelings that were accumulated through laughter and tears. And you’ll think to yourself, “I know the poet.”
