Sulfites Allergies Can You Get When You Are Older

Biagio told me then got me thinking last part * *

If love is from heaven it rains, it rains for you

And if you look up, are the most beautiful things in the stars shine

The flowers are fragile and die in a flash, almost like the days of a lifetime. But if you look you know, if you touch them you know, give meaning to their short life.

These are some beautiful verses of the song Biagio Antonacci "Just two words."

I tried to tell. A say and tell, rods and sing. I'm not the most capable and it destroys me, I do not know what to do. I'm hurt. I need to write, because I speak like that ... I have no other means of communication, and now I'm like a desert devoid of vision, unaware of the reason that pushes me to be there right in the middle. Disoriented. A thousand words dart and push without getting anything, there is no outlet. I cry all the time and this is not in my diary, I'm not a girl and I'm horribly ashamed.

I'm not so, I have to write and to do so I need to talk.

I can not remain silent by convention, can not pretend any purpose and without sharp blades have always responded with wit and craft. I had my maturity, but someone pushed me back, I'm back baby to tread in the footsteps of those who directed me, but very badly. I have to lie to politely, please. Instead of me no good, I want to talk. If nothing else, because if the mouth is silent, the brain and the heart die in tears. Here you see, I got there ... this is what long-term plastered my inspiration. If I had not written, now so bad, I would not yet established the motive and the manner of this pain. It is possible that the lack of imagination come to hurt so horribly? It 'possible that it may be out of breath, which we feel excluded from a world once so warm and personal manner so cruel? Devoid of inspiration for so much time that I trust more in a possible solution, arid and flat as a slab of marble, pale as a hazy sun ... I'm this, I now? And just because I can not speak.

To maintain good relationships, politeness, courtesy, I racked my brains soul to grumble possible answers and possible revenge, seeking feverishly in a name list of someone who can listen and share with me poison and malice. Most fly to another solution ... I am perhaps too lonely? And this is no remedy? Before writing, to gain affected eyes that tell your ears as possible to explain where to find pleasure through me first and then to your liking. Without any payment, no security, torn between poetry and narrative, dramatic dramatic and passionate love. I found someone to satisfy even my mother. But now what can I tell if I'm that bad?