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Taking advantage of the uselessness of grammar,
I can't but admit that in my defense,
I will use hyperbole with the dexterity of metaphors that cannot be
of metaphors that cannot be understood; for the wrong reasons I was
wrong reasons I was caught by poetry, 
that one that intermingled with love and thus to pretend
this madness that never ends,
not even in sonnets when
I feel unhappy... On the other hand
in the first pages of a book 
I timidly find your glances 
behind my lost insolence
in my arguments as an anecdote.
I don't know if you would help me to recognize
that this is a sickness in spite of prohibitions
what gerunds have, loving,
or wanting in a skirmish
with the consonants simultaneously with the vowels, 
although never beyond the noun; here all this confuses us and you cannot
confuses us and you cannot console me
not even when the day begins again... The word love
is not a misunderstood contradiction
in the logic that is right, or what is worse, it is a bad example that is 
example that wobbles in my hesitation. So, in my defense
I will say a few spelling words
awaiting the verdict of the grammarians, 
those modern scholars who appear
in philosophy programs, or the philologists imagining my desperation
my despair walking on a Saturday full of clouds.