Monotone
monocorde
d'une voix sans timbre
d'une voix aphone
Je ploids sous le poids
de cette mélopée
sans fard
lente et lanscinante
inscrite dans mes chairs
en caractère gras
Mises à mal
par la vie
Mises à mort
Maintes fois
Et toujours on se relève
On revient
Et on erre dans cette vie
Mise à prix
Au marché des Sans Noms
Ta valeur n'a pas de prix
Que cela soit inscrit
En caractère gras

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

Slowly losing control,
Strings tugging away at my soul,
My mind is hazy.

These masks are my sanctuary,
Even though they make me feel like a liar.

I am no good at anything; useless.
So I put on a new mask everyday,
To cover up my mistakes from yesterday.  

Hold your breath,
Let your heart grow hazy and hollow,
Forget what your purpose is.

You are just another masked being,
Ready to dive in deep of your own mortality.
Losing your true identity to all of those masks.

Slowly losing control,
Letting everything go.
As you let yourself go, and the masks take control.