Reflections Of A Bunch Of Writer

I am the lady of the pen ...

I am the lady who picks up the pen and write what happens in your body, no longer young, and as such ... that nobody cares to keep, that no one wants anymore. Everyone wants to move it and why?, If she is not more ... the lady of the pen that has aged writing the names of those men who laugh at their feelings have become "the lady of the pen."

My writers to write ...

Write even if you gain a penny, a dime or a dollar. Write although this is one day, wood for fire ... Although it is a chapter of a story. Ours. Or a traveler on the subway, which will be seen no longer. Write because it is free and is a life time of happiness that touches us, is at moments, the only thing that actually ... have. "More important than work, more important than money."

Write and thank you for the opportunity the Internet to do so, although we do not pay, but not like our images. Write and do not wish to be the first "because the first shall be last and the last ...

Write because you can improve with time and practice and we do not look over his shoulder, "no cloud envy the happiness we feel ... writing."

Write and deliver because this time we are together, knowing our names, giving us advice, unique and unrepeatable and may die soon, and are not good the bad memories or remorse. Not when there's love through.

Summer Fields, Diego, Cordoba, Albacete, Serena, all was a great pleasure to meet you and keep writing because that is priceless and be happy too is it that we do for free.

The writer is not so good ...

... Well, the lady did not let him, pulling his talent is not 100% is shown. The lady is selfish, wants all to himself, as there is talent there, just want to live ... and in it there is no sorrows that make writing ... does not allow the writer does not want to see suffering, and pulling it will cease to exist pa'que, but not to live, because he is in his body and it should not be morir.Con enjoy the illusion that there is in today's society.

The girl will be born ...

... And kill the writer taking his place. If the writer misspelled ... nor will it try. Receive the writer and say goodbye to the girl, I need to stop weapons being her and not another, that dictates, arrange and send in the actions of a single being.

Writer dies ...

Gradually moving away, but I still hear his heart beating. Still dominates my body but his performance is going to end.

The writer dies, it will burn forever, not born again, I hope not, because she was born of a difficult birth and contributed little. The writer is finished, the rain sets the rhythm that brings the long-awaited moment for me. Rain is my ally and I want it to rain so much and so that he may soon be here, your purpose.

I'll let the writers write ...

The writers do not know why they want to write, but if they do, they feel like dying. So, who do not feel not ever understand, is not something that can separate them. They take your pen and start with a small idea, but the world is moving fast and thousands of ideas are born, everything comes to life in them and write without knowing the reason, but can not stop and so carried away that innocent desire, so cheap and peculiar pen and paper that is usually fixed.

Sometimes they are embarrassed by what they have written ... How could it happen to me I have this nonsense?,! Too bad I write, tell others! Misspellings That I know I have ... it was the fault of the literature teacher, no doubt, but the Life is like that and they are there for good and bad because you can not change and do not even want to reach, because writing can be a secret known only to your mother, your text will offer to be read by those who are thirsty to read if that is why they happen, or you can do with writing therapy to achieve a piece of happiness that lasts and lasts.

Undress to the writers ...

Because I know them, to tell me your past, present their projects. Undress to the writers, I ask humbly, with prudence so as not to upset your.

I want to know how they came to be, whether born or learned, if you write your feelings, your life or your people, if he writes rejoices, grieves or does not care.

Be naked, so I could see them, get to the bottom and think that it is good to meet you from the inside, I feel that I have as they do, how many hours?, If you are planning ideas or ...

If pain or bondage, profession, hobby or joy. I swear that undress, as I see them take off their hats, shoes, socks, little by little ...

Already and will only watch the last thing that will be drawn to say:

"Look at the time it takes for you to see what we are" and what now? ... Well I'll tell you: we are now closer than ever.

The writer, lies ...

After a lot of writing, the writer rests, want to get up early to see if there are new or have grown strawberries from the vine, or wine, wild boar and destroyed everything or if your work was what the Wind. At the end you'll know if yours will last a lifetime or simply be: "What the Wind".

I write because yes, and write:

I no longer know how to write I love you, no longer being able to say

I have to learn to write, is another new method to kill the feeling when we separated. You're not a good poet and you will laugh at me, I do not know how I'm going to write, I love you and it's true, ask the same God, just ask for charity if you doubt my love, heaven will be honest. I write because, and write: like it or not, I do it to say: I love you, because otherwise the night my roof is eternal, since you know my life took another direction, and I wake up singing, to nothing I'm crying, and the dog returns to love because he knows that I love you and love you as a father.

I write because yes, and write: and if you refuse, I'll write a poem, which I swear, steal the death of my beautiful and no longer have to write.

I need the death of the writer ...

The writer is killing me and everything I write is breaking my mother, will not be his memory.

I need to kill him because it hurts, if you write and write for him a moment.

He died suddenly dies on me, as an evil spirit will not let me sack because not everything live and you are me, but sometimes it parezcapediré you go, while the quiet ... back.

The writer has suffered ...

The writer has suffered ... Just type who has suffered, he suffered only writes it is the only way to stop the suffering without end in suicidio.Señores, writers are beings who have suffered, and if they prove vices is to know the troubles of the passion in his right path, they have not known.

Something you want to go, take imitation, they take the bad taste, the substitute of love that could have guessed with another that was lost ... and at night ... and forgotten. Vice are thinking, adventure possible, the woman who kisses him, without asking, where they have come. That's the writers.

Choose to die ...

If you love die, not that. If I get hit by a car for less. By falling from a tree or because it was time that God, without more, call me, to be at his ladito.

Well, I'll take the latter and that no change course, the rest, I leave to others ... The ending is not bad for the girl that I live not for the writer, who is weak.

I write and go to sleep ..

Before being with Morpheus write "I am happy," I have home, I have car, I have family and work, I have friends in Testal, I have to live.

Live happy with what they learn, I want to continue studying, I do not mind carrying Bater shock or all records. I am that, and if I fail in life, I will always keep smiling, because I live, I'm happy, I have cats, I have friends, I have to live.

The white gun ...

Caused no injuries, but transformed souls. That gun was magic.

The poet had spent all his bullets and no one knows if that story was real or fantasy, an invention that had the neighbors up there.

To those who defend and protect targeted for now are not villains, but very brave elves.

Who can have it now?, What poet have?, If anyone knows where you please tell me that for me, no one will know.

Do not write before you die ... you are my love ...

I was unable to tell you my life, I wrote, but that letter never envió.Fui unable to look into your eyes and called you by telephone, but the answer you, I crashed. I was unable to caress the hair, but I sent a stuffed animal to the wrong address to sleep with him. I could not find was your perfume as I approached you, but that supposedly was replaced by the fragrance of roses and carnations at a store in my town. You know, I've lost everything for fear of failure that was announced days day with your scorn. It was a pity I was wrong and was good to hide it, but waiting for a new love me years passed ... In time you knew you had roses and carnations in your garden, you sent so many cards that could not be counted as a recipient does not exist I received many calls from unknown numbers ... Do you know what ... because you were mine and I yours, but we separated the stars, the differences, the interest and that: "We're two ships that sail aimlessly in the ocean and pronouncing our names go in silence, for the other. .. can not hear. "

Despite that, never write: "You've been my love."

Luckily they are ...

And who know who I am. Good thing they care for me, although my lack of faith, "thinking I do not accept them, do not pray anywhere, I do not take God ahead not y. .. visit churches do not allow the confession to a" master of God. "

But those who were saints deep inside me, are ... therefore, they, thankfully, that comprise these faults, to have them right, you can live without faith and read their stories ... They may not believe and yet these beings have as friends.

It can be so many forms of them, be with them, they know that choosing the right way, you do not need church, to say the prayer that confession is not yet one that obtains pardon. That is my faith, that is my religion. Therefore, "unless they are ill."

I can not live without it ...

I met him that day and so now I know what I wanted, what I want: I want to be always with him, he wraps his presence and fills my whole being, without realizing it was his spirit.

He is my North, my idol, my model, my friend. He is the son of God and I am the lady of the pen that writes love poems.

They mocked a poet ...

They laughed at him for being a great poet, dreamer, the gray becoming white, black mixed with gray, blue and red smiled and wept for him, green and cream loved it relaxing. He was a winner, but he wrote poetry and laughed at him, but did not care too by continued his pen and paper. It was just a man who enjoyed writing and nothing else mattered. I came to admire when he did not care about the criticism of others. So now that the world believes you can change the courses, destinations and ideas.

My profession of Literature ...

I had a literature teacher at school who was very demanding, I always admired the great writers, I read a lot of small, but it was not my best subject.

This was during the primary and part of high school, I was in the midst of many letters as I'm now, but I do not know how it will last, I'm not always the same, now as I write, and then leave this hobby and I spend around tables reading or riding the bicycle.

Professor Claudia Alarcón, and called my literature teacher, was Spanish, specifically Orense, was widowed and he always came to give make-up class. We read poetry well composed, not as many of these that are written here, but now has free poetry or whatever and I'm in for it, because for me to move my pen is like doing taichi, I want to do to relax and as the body allows me, sometimes I'm proud of my work and others think: Oh dear, I'm painting it's cute. The teacher is still alive, hope you do not read this because it will remind me, yes, you remember, he always made me the tough questions and read poetry to me.

Well, if you know you would write here and correcting spelling mistakes and so many other things because for them there will never be perfect in your area, or by any means perfect.

I would be saying as he had to, how to make rhymes, how to use metaphors.

Sounds good to pass this literature, but I am free in all but the work I have a boss who sent me. To be free is to do your best not letting you out the moments of happiness that life can bring you out of your obligations.

She has been remembered as the witch school, demanding professional literature, a subject that should be nice and relaxing.

Now it is sounding more and ears will be, but is, I'm honest. Well it was my worst subject, so maybe I jumped to read and write from small, to see if I could do it as great. Power yes I can do it, but as small, but the way I can be.

The other teachers of literature that I got very good grades me, maybe because I got used to read and write, or maybe because my beloved first teacher asked me too.

85% write or call antistress mechanism, and 150% for revenge, can be, now, would not wish harm to anyone. And each will receive what you touch, I hope you do not receive, mourn too much.