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.
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.
He passed by
and almost everything changed in me.
If you find your judgement fair,
then why do you stand there
pointing at me?
help me see through.
Fear of the possible pain
is what makes life
a bit more complicated
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
Let your eyes
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