poetry prisons me

into having to be a soft, gentle breaking thing.

talking about butterflies and waves.

my writings are not obliged to pass a beautiful message

or to make stars in your eyes.

I often need to write

only to set my own self free

to write about the absurdity of life and everything in it

about my rage and the ugly sides of me

or sometimes about wanting people

to get the hell out of my horizon.


dark spot

She dies once everyday

in the middle of day and night,

hardly lives a full single breath.

what sign of life do you expect from her?


What I went for yesterday,

was more a strategy of failure.

the habit of giving up on who you really are.

I can not write for others, and I can not dance for others.

I refuse to exist for others or to serve their eyes,

because my vision is not to be what they want to see. freedom is my forever moto.

I let them go,

I let them leave my horizon.

Then right away, I refocus on my momentos joy

in a still vast vast field

remained to me

free of crossing thoughts.

I dare.

If you find your judgement fair,

then why do you stand there

pointing at me?

convince me.

help me see through.

mala fama

we create celebrities

and hit them hard with our

endless love for a night

and endless hate for a day

because we are not capable of loving people

for what they can create

for what they are as a whole

unrelated to us.


Two days of silence

One for having nothing honest to say,

and the other for the audience seeking the false.

On the third day, I began to speak,

and it was all about duality.


My mind has learnt to let go

meanwhile I was busy moving my way

without paying much attention

My knees hurt alongside my whole physics

But I feel the chill

I feel some equilibrium

Good night!

Four directions

Let your eyes

cut things

if they need to

Let your edges be sharp

if you need to

and roll and scroll

melt the tension inside of you

and let your hands break spaces

if they need to