My poems are about me,
About the world I created,
About the world that ceases because of me,
About the poverty of my belongings
And the richness of expectations.

That's why I write:
To put the blanks between the bricks,
To keep the sky at sight
Despite every ceiling,
To make of the bitter taste of despair
A pleasant journey.

Poetry is the slow death
Through immortality,
To unattach from life,
Making me less alive,
But eternal.

I love from dying bit by bit
For it is the closest to me I'll ever be,
The maximum to get from life;
The world is a world of ends,
Our wills reminds us of that,
As the sun or the constant now.

Poetry is to exercise the intensity through calm,
The transformation through the steady,
The moment through time,
To vanish every weight through the supreme weight.

Poetry is the victory
Of ink over men,
Of the possible over the real.

Short poems delight me
Despite a particular fall for Ginsberg.
They often say much
Or say nothing.

But they can be
No more than subtle:
Great in content,
Short in strings.
A paradox that defy
Any communication theory.

Unfortunatelly,
I cannot always
Write long enough
To create a short poem.

My own pleasure
Denies itself.
I spend my moments
Within others' needs
Inside others' heads,
Fulfilling others' desires.

I want to be me
But how can I be?
I want to discover what I'm here for
But where I am?
I want to be complete
But what do I miss?

My pleasure is not mine
Or it is my pleasure
Pleasures that are not mine?

I dream of freedom
But I have no idea
What ties me.

The pleasure
Is something to be understood,
Maybe just lived without considering,
But surely experienced.

To be self centered
Is the only path
To being something else.

I know deeply my solitude,
Its unique smell,
Its thick cloud,
Its condensation,
The solitude within my solitude.

I know I am not there when it comes,
I know that, small or big,
I become tiny,
I know the weights get lost,
The orders become vain,
The moments accumulate
In a constant unperceived passing through.

I know every search for oneself
And for belonging
Cannot be otherwise lonely.
One needs to be lonely in order not to be.

Not without pain
We'll build and destroy systems
An inert and abject belief
To make us more than humans:
A supreme species
With no control or self conscious,
Of individual moaning,
Of lonely joys,
Of the eternal dichotomy between
Be one or be all.

What are the insanities
I use to keep me sane?
Maybe a consuming job,
Or a will to keep flying,
Or saying yes,
Or a self disbelief
To be resistant
To my flaws.

I have to give away
A love, a cat, a car, an apartment,
A traveling bag, a loved shoe,
The phone signal, a guitar, a world map,
intense moments,
So I remain sane and free
To choose a prison to live in.

I shall be naked,
Eaten, chewed and spit,
Until I'm left only
The bones of being
So filters would all be broken
And things would appear
As they are:
No front, no verse;
Whole.

I still lack the courage
To reach my freedom.
I lack the desire to walk,
To step forward,
To dig deeper.

I lack the finesse
To understand what's hurtful,
I lack the ambition
To seek my own identity,
I lack the grit to stand out for myself,
I lack company to keep me warm,
And I lack loneliness to keep me centered.

These days
It seems hard to fill the holes
And every time
I lose parts inside me
And new lacks arise.

It is an exercise
To be one.