tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6917773659953634422026-02-04T16:24:40.200-03:00Kenia Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12893148474912410033noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691777365995363442.post-81117330483986057322012-11-11T19:09:00.002-02:002012-11-11T20:06:05.447-02:00<div style="text-align: justify;"> Poetry survives as long as we believe the magic of words. I don't. Not anymore. I had someone wishing to forget things I've said. I didn't say anything that wasn't love. It got me confused. It caused me to actually lose a language, it caused me to hate those things I said, to look at them and feel disgusted. Love words. I can't live with hate. Still I wanted to make him something really special: 100 poems. A gift. But halfway to the end, I realized they wouldn't change anything, would they? Again poems are made of words, mine come with a history on hatred. It's nobody's fault I fall in love with impossible guys. But I lost my second language. From now on I'm keeping my thoughts to myself. They are safe inside me, no one will ever hate them there, they won't hurt anyone or make anybody uncomfortable, either.</div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> <br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> Thank you muchly for your affection and attention all these years, both here and over at Poesia Torta.</div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> <br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> See you around.</div> <br /> <br />Kenia Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12893148474912410033noreply@blogger.com4