You can act with love or hate. What you do next will be a reflection of what you feel. Love is creative, and hate is destructive. Love is compassionate, it creates changes through reason and empathy of emotion. Hate feels no compassion, it only sees criminals around it. Love forgives and moves forward, hate engages in the past and creates infinite hells. With love it is seen beyond, and its sorrows are just. With hate everything is exaggerated, and there is always collateral damage; Guilty that they were not. His sentences are always as criminal as those of the one who committed them.
With love, any act takes us further. With hatred, no matter how much an action is accepted on a social level, it leads to the destruction of the human being, his repression and the absence of the freedoms that were intended to be defended.
Live with love, and you will be free, although thousands of iron bars surround your body. Live with love and your spirit will fly with the sun's shine, even if your head rolls over a basket. Nothing will matter but the greatness of your love.
Live with hate, and you will not need any torture or penalty, you will always carry them inside.
What I am doing I do with love? That is the question that rushes us day by day, and that very few attend to keep in mind.
Avente all, somnolencias of life that in boat of evildoers you are willing to everything. You do not need your boatman's coin to corner us in the sea of your dreams, and prepare us to trumpet in your rebuffs of sudden indisposed rebellion. Kill me filthy loneliness and don't wake me up until the world is better. Kill my mind to my neurons that is better fool than to pay attention to the rebuffs of the repressed. Righteous who seek justice but who use hate as a guide, are neither fair nor give justice to anyone, only whirlwinds of debris furrowing black, muted hearts in the sadness of the boatman. Swallow the fucking fucking bastard coin now and let me down here, I say when I turn off the television. Goodbye flock of manipulation, I do not believe your music of criminals or the crimes that you present to me as high idiosyncrasies of cruelty. I only believe your headlines rigged and decontextualized. I only believe the miseries. Your hateful payments to those who hate you and in their black networks they left you trapped in the banners of hate to the most hated.
So I go, leave me here in the sea that will make my home from the waves. I will ride without differences, seeing beauty in each awakening that I do not intend to compare either. Seeing beauty in the precise wave of the surfer and in the filthy crappy water of carefree bathers with their bags, condoms, and pads thrown into my sweet salty sea. I will dance between surfing, shit, and sharks. But I get down here. I disconnect from this deceptive manipulated world, because to manipulate myself, I already manipulate myself more dignifiedly in the own ravings of my fucking mind. I take care of doing self hypnosis. I take care of my brainwashing, thanks for your services, but leave it to me and follow you with your boat to the hell that more of the balls go out to you. I go to paradise, to my own suggestion. I am going to listen to the flowers, to the ship at night, to the moon that speaks to me saying that I am crazy, and to eat seaweed with the fish that do not get caught with promises. I'm going to be blind to your damned filthy critic boatman, stay with your miseries. I am going to dance in the forest. To seduce the girl who looks at me with a welcome letter and is not afraid of being judged by what an old torn idiot says about how her flower should act. I'm going to my loneliness, to throw firecrackers with death celebrating its closer every day, while you boatman, you hide to talk about the subject to weeping. I will sit down to listen to his music, the piano that sticks the notes of the final judgment in each shiver of my skin, in each key that I feel sprout with bristly hairs that wait impatiently for another new resonance.
Goodbye I told you, and said and done, I pulled your boat head. When I fell I broke my neck, and nothing was the same again. I started to walk without a head. Without mind or condition, while the boatman, on his way continued. And this poem was the currency he charged.
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