I Want a House Full of Nothing

I want a house full of nothing;
just a clean wooden bare floor,
scented candles and a tall door.

I want a house full of nothing;
a mirror and music to dance to,
red lipstick and perfume for days of blues.

I want a house full of nothing;
counter lights, clean toilet seat,
hot water in tub to soak my feet.

I want a house full of nothing;
just a blackboard on the wall,
chalk, words, and no phone calls.

I want a house full of nothing;
just one fork and one knife,
red wine in barrels for the real life.

I want a house full of nothing;
a winter coat and a few shoes,
passport ready for a world cruise.

I want a house full of nothing;
just pen and paper on my desk,
and big windows by my queen bed.

I want a house full of nothing;
spiced chestnut scented sheets,
peppermint toothpaste and lots of beets.

I want a house full of nothing;
a skyline and double doors,
‘cause rainy days I do adore.

I want a house full of nothing;
a high rooftop and no TV,
bare boobs in the warm breeze.

This house I want that is full of nothing
I’ll fill with all of the little things,
they may seem small to the avaricious,
but pure joy to me they bring.

© Marcia Capellán

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Mil Rostros

a thousand faces

Puede que las caras que presento
no sean siempre de agrado
ni mucho menos adecuadas
para el mejor momento.

A todos brindo mi única cara,
pero a los ingratos voy y muestro
la que no tiene sentimientos

Y así dejarles saber que
no es ira lo que siento
mas bien, indiferencia;
I’m sorry si me ahuyento.

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Wooden Scars

Lately, I find myself in one of those moods when anything may turn into a lovely art-piece. I’ve learned to look at the positive of not-so-positive moments, turning them into poetry or, in my head, a symphony.

I’ve learned to appreciate the smallest things. The other day, as I was cleaning, a scratch on the console table made me stop and think about what I was seeing. It was a thought of appreciation. I ran my fingers through the small crater and followed its shape. Beautiful, I thought, as I wiped away the dust.

Maybe it isn’t really beautiful and I’m being overly sentimental and dramatic (because I just moved and it brought back memories), or maybe there really is something heart-warming about the old furniture that have spent so many birthdays with us.

Things, just like someones, also have a lifespan. Our scars — physical or emotional — remind us of the pain we’ve endured; scratches on furniture are also scars, wooden scars, and they remind us of paths we’ve traveled and steps we’ve given, sometimes literally. How I banged my toe on the claws-like feet of the same table, for example. Or how loose the screws on the coffee table are from moving it so many times from place to place. They’re memories worth keeping.

The old me would have wanted that table out, in the garbage, ready for a brand new piece because that’s what most people do. But today, I think I want it in. I think, from now on, it is not old until it’s old. Like, completely useless.

I never thought I’d look at a scratch on a piece of furniture as something precious, but time and life change us. These simple little things, which I never before cared for, for some reason now mean everything.

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Free Spirit

I wasn’t always free.
The spirit of freedom slowly made its way in,
year after year, removing the shame layer by layer,
until a bare soul and a mind in the open remained.
It made sense; carefree felt and looked better since.


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