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Blois Dec 2017
I don't know you, said I
while attached to my back the old me,
like a siamese twin, withered,
drained of meaning by the image
of this new self I'm supposed to be.

I swear by this mirror that I don't know you.
I repeated the lie smiling awkwardly,
every terrified silabe like the footsteps
of things moving in an empty room.

Have you ever tried it?
If you bang on about it you might end
playing rock, paper and scissors with yourself.
Blois Dec 2017
It was all clear. At least for now.
When you ceased to be a stranger
in this strange world of pipe dreams,
the act of repeating your name
changed from absurdity to mantra.
Heartwarming and sad,
the naivety of it all.
Blois Nov 2017
Hear us out, we are the losers.
We didn't want it all but just
a little more,  
from the mirrors without wrinkles,
from the afternoon 'till death,
from the doors without locks,
from the catdog people in the street,
and from ourselves, at least

from these shadows without bodies,
from these houses without ghosts,
from these minds without forgetfulness,
from these mountains without a fall,
from this silence without voices,
and from you who told us that we were wrong.

And that people is still out there,
and that people is distracted,
and that people is also living,
and that people is melting like snow,
and that people is building promises,
and that people is burning in the sun,
and that people...

Hear us out. We are those who got
the short end of the stick but still
go through the motions of living,
dancing away the life to death.

What's the matter, are you afraid?
Help yourself from my words,
take a deep breath and
deduce from the above
if you are one of us.
Blois Nov 2017
I donĀ“t care about ying and yang. Needless to say that ying and yang feels the same way about me.
Blois Nov 2017
For ever and ever, just for one day.
The shadows will be heroes,
standing by all things. Someone
will finally recognize them for
their infinite and unconditional love,
for never loosing control while facing
the cruelty of those who cast them.

To make my shadow proud of me.
If I could only do that, if only I
could convince myself that she is.
Blois Nov 2017
So, I discovered that she do likes poetry.
Only she likes other poetry, not mine.
And it is not that I need her to like
what I write per se (I mostly don't like
what I write myself), is that she don't like
what I write about her. And that is critical.
Because love is also an artistic impresion
and we only like the art that affects us.
Blois Nov 2017
I'm a builder.
My poems are houses.
Crooked,
ghost houses.
Mad houses.
Burn victims hospitals.
Pet cemeteries.
Monuments
to unknown soldiers.

But also, sometimes,
they are what they are meant to be.
A beating heart with space enough
for them all to dwell.

Usually, not even that.
Only rubble.
Only silence.
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