This is no poetry

suddenly i wish my life stop being a lot of disappointments.
the dreaming is the act most innocent and most corrupted that the human can to do.
the inofensive manner in wich the lying body stays inactive. And in the dreamings there is no the corruption escencial, indeed, there are only the hideous things whom the society proscribes and try to dispel, these resist in dreams. i am a thing of those to whom seem ugly to the society. the human thing.
i am not a nightmare, i will not reveal too much suddenly the truth for to wake up, i am just a deserted thought and hopeless love. because in my world the only evidences of loving are the loveless marks and vagueness, even the sorrow, that´s the only fruit that i have knew lately.
had days in wich don´t was thus. my heart and my body no had marks because when my heart knew the inminent bleeding was coming, it went away.
i see the sky
then i say hello
and i demand:
-give me a salute, here is your poor thing, the last.
and please picture the land of this decadent dialect in the clouds-
the beliefs builded in dreamings are often dead before to have born
this fact produces my vision that all the love in the world has dead
do i hate the winter because it saw my own birth?, or i hate me for that?