I’m drenched
in the flood
which has yet to come

I’m *******
in the prison
which has yet to exist



Not having played
the game of chess
I’m already the checkmate



Not having tasted
a single cup of your wine
I’m already drunk



Not having entered
the battlefield

I’m already wounded and slain



I no longer
know the difference
between image and reality



Like the shadow
I am

And

I am not

I have listened to a single song
a hundred of times.
I have watched a movie
five times in a week.
I have read a book
over and over again.
I have inked quotes on my arms
a million times over.

I am good - no great
- with repetitions.
The idyllic sound of it in my ears
The calm, soothing visual on my eyes
The insatiable want for familiarity
The loops, and returns, and hoops, and lavish rhymes in my mind.
I am good - no great
- with repetitions.

But you - yes you -
made me sick of what I once thought
as beautiful.
You fed me words, phrases, tunes, sonnets, lines, quotes, rhythms
(over and over again)

You know what they repeatedly whispered
in my dull, aching ears?
"I don't want you anymore"

And you know what my stupid,
***** of a mouth said?
"Give me one more chance"

Never have a repetition made
my stomach churn
with sickness and
loathing for me.
Yes me.

The one who walks
is tired,
she is about to lose her energy.

She moves between mines
frightened,
whenever is day or night.

A step she takes,
a lost of health,
a step she takes,
another light goes out.

Her life,
it dies
slowly around every corner.

She leaves herself in broken pieces
on sidewalks
and in front of windows.

One girl, a mine,
shivering and swearing
almost without legs
that the lighted city still looks dark.

Her who walks
almost without life
looking for a way out.

Footprints that burn.
So many cousins,
but no help.

A lost one
who found with
-and took for guide today-
the moon.

Come back loved;
come back, dear.
Come back.

If you move,
if you wrap again,
you see it rains and...

Just one last time
let yourself go and you will see
that with you the desire of continuing to live and walk
will be back.

Virtue runs before the muse
And defies her skill,
She is rapt, and doth refuse
To wait a painter's will.

Star-adoring, occupied,
Virtue cannot bend her,
Just to please a poet's pride,
To parade her splendor.

The bard must be with good intent
No more his, but hers,
Throw away his pen and paint,
Kneel with worshippers.

Then, perchance, a sunny ray
From the heaven of fire,
His lost tools may over-pay,
And better his desire.