Sculptor of words

I have always felt the mark of attraction of the figuration of the word, that sword of judgment over thought, where abandoned children play in dreams, I am really willing to give that well of ink as a composition, where the words of my soul are the same painting with its depth, the modern thing that I tell, is every morning a story full of fables without laughter begins as an allegory of life.

Only life is expressed in living letters, with a critical practice of poetry, forget in my shadows, since I only see a paper face with soft epics dilated in the courage of urban heroes, I see that everything lies in curiosity the pagan life is of immortals, who do not behave like immortals, since I see my reality as an identity of modern literature that moves away from the classic, all talent is that we have our long-fragment dialogue like the sea.

In the mirror I am not a reflection, but a simple anecdote and I tell it episodically, it is like a song, which is addressed to light beings who abhor easy paths, which disgusts me all popular as a false ticket, I see that the ancestry of words of love I only feel descent in the shadow of death, written with crocodile tears, where joy cannot be shorter than a sculpture of pathos.