The poem of your words

On the blue lake as of your eyes, a drop of unhappiness beaded. You tightened your fists in front of your mouth to protect itself, not to show. Your head bent down to fold up you. Your fringe hid what it could. But the blue lake of your eyes darkened not being able anything more to prevent. Your body contracted. The drop of unhappiness became a tear of distress. In the storm of your feelings, you gave up yourself. The tear ran on your cheek, your small cavities depressed. Your tight fists could nothing any more control. To cry to exist. To cry to have liked too much. In a tear, the poem of your words is escaped.More text to be written, nobody to listen to it. A future in scrap, the abandonment for destiny. The rage lives your fists, the blue lake is filled of incandescent lava, the night rose. A shade recovers your face demolishes. You are beautiful but you forgot it. Tomorrow, later, the volcano will die out, its choked rage. Your enlightened eyes will find their glare under the gilded fringe. Your contracted fists will have opened with the unknown in another slipped hand. The paper pencil will again write the poems of your words on the small notebook. Raise, erases this chewed dye. Fight, resists not to sink. On the blue lake of your eyes a wind of revolt must blow.