Words fly high,
Trespass walls,
Penetrate, extirpate,
Build and implode,
Code and decode,
They're just words
But much more than
Physics behind them.
Words are phenomena,
Pure causality,
Pure order spiced by disorder.
Beauty and pragmatism.
Words fly high
And fall heavily.
Anchor and wings,
Ship and harbor,
Grenades and first-aid kit,
Surgery room and coffins.

No more than words.

Make it quick,
Make it fast,
Your rules, your fault.

Do what you intended for yourself
Or nothing's left but self pity.

Today, and all other days,
Nothing stops,
Only you.

Do it fast,
But do it.
WRITE!

Between you and me
There's this layer,
This crust that avoids
The real me to fuse with
The real you.

How thick I am?
The exact distance
In foots and thoughts
We're apart.

But there are bits of me
That will never belong to me:
My eyes hold visions
That are no more than borrowed;
My nose grasp the world's souls
In the form of smells -  
A permission of use.

I am just a part of me,
I have my body, with a mind,
A strength and a reach,
But I also have my thickness
And my image captured
Through others' eyes,
My reflex in mirrors,
Shells that represent me,
My very own brand logo,
Glued and stuck
Without any consent.

We grow new layers of skin
Only to realize the more covered we are
Farther we are to those bits of ourselves
That do not belong to us.

To be thick is to mutilate ourselves.

Stay, stay, stay,
Says the voice
That know
That the difference
Between stay and leave
Is a decision.

Sometimes we free fall
In the windy moist air
So we can learn to fly
Only to reach the sky.

If I say nothing
Would it still be a poem?

The absence of words
Is the greatest triumph
Of a poet
With so much to say.

A chromatic beauty
Composed into a complexity
That can only be heard
By simple ears.

The only way to express
The lightness of a tormented soul.

It was not an option
To be what I became,
It is a matter of time, context,
Life, family, town, skin,
Gender, straightness, history.

To assume I had an option
Is the same as saying
A fish chooses water,
A rock refuses breathing,
A river runs from the mountain.

The laws are there,
The options are vain,
Free will is bought, but never sold.
There is just enough liberty
So we can't effusively discard it.

There is always an upper level of rules,
From society to biology to physics to emptiness.
No system can be self sufficient.

A walk into the office
Is the run from the house
Where fears live,
Bills must be paid,
Food must feed,
Order must reign.

To walk back home
Is to run
From the anxiety
Of never have things done,
Accomplishments found like Dodos,
Value created as alchemists created gold
From nothing.

And our families
Are a bond with our past
Not so much relevant now,
But still a remaining bond
Of which getting rid of
Does more damage
Than sticking to it.

And our ideas of all of these
More harmful than alcohol
Drugs, cars, smoke, cancer,
War, conflicts, intolerance,
Cholera, ebola, hypertension,
Drowning, guns, police,
Sharks, snakes, angry dogs,
Earthquakes, hurricanes, flood,
Stairs, scissors, power plugs.

We are killers and healers
With the same vocabulary,
The same set of rules,
The same creation,
But it does not matter,
Things will happen.

There is a little bit of
Freewill for us to understand
It is only a part of the world.

I sorrow
For the choices
We do
In order to feel
Social.

Beneath the skin
Lies a new layer of skin,
Hiding a third level of skin,
That conceals the ugliness
Of functioning organs.

The air is the extension of my lungs,
The grass, the extension of my feet.
This skin, in all these layers
Are made actually to cover
My own body to see the world outside.

Everything I dare to say "mine"
Are those things that lie
Beneath the skin.

A perfect type of style,
One I can't run from,
Too much craziness
To be crazy,
Yet a bit of reasoning
To refuse any order.

A type of hair
That says
"I'm mine, I'm yours,
And none at the same time."
Teeth that tells me
What you've been eating,
Feet that tells where you've been,
And everything's fine.

Though your smell
Still unrecognizable,
I have my own thoughts about that.
Maybe they're wrong,
But, who cares?

You are my image,
My contours, my opera,
And nothing.
A schizophrenia,
A delusion,
Or worse,
A socially constructed ideal.

I'll fight it with every fiber
Even if it costs
The long promised happiness
Of a simple, magical and real world.

The world (I'm convinced)
Is none of those three.

Whenever I look at myself
Through the glass and platinum
I'm looking for answers:
Am I different than yesterday?
Am I older?
Do I look properly to whatever I'll do?

But I am the limit of the mirror.
My skin blocks the inside,
My judgment holds answers underground,
My eyes refuse to see things I don't want.

I am my own limitations,
I, alone, built my limits.
I look into a mirror
But it can only contain
Tiny fragments of past,
Never a glance of what will be.

What I see is not me.
My eyes and my teeth
Can only be seen indirectly.
There is no truth in any emulation:
My own vision is a trick,
My hearing, an apparatus,
My touch, nothing more than
My electrons rejecting your electrons.

The mirror is just a shell.
It will never contain,
Never be fulfilled,
Tells no stories,
Say no things.
The mirror is what you ask it.
An image so distant
Our souls refuse to enter.

Eyes that see no image,
Skin that touches nothing,
A life unable to die.
A concept so absurd we fall in love.

I sink,
I drawn,
I try to swim
In this vast quicksand,
Swinging arms
To desperately grasp
Any remains of firm soil.

I feel the sand up to my nose
But I fight:
I have this feeling
That somewhere
I'll find a branch to hold on,
An air bubble
To keep me breathing.

I don't care being defeated:
It will eventually happen.
To accept it is my revolt.
I'll stand against the inevitable
For resigning is confirm it.

The revolution
Can only happen
Inside out.

Expel what's strange,
A self defense action
To purify.

But purity is dangerous as poison,
It lacks adaptability,
Requires precision,
None of which
Can sustain long.

Everything we shoot
Is no longer in control,
No longer ours.
We aim, but reality changes,
Bullets are lost,
Mistargeted.

We shoot to lose responsibility.
We shoot to free ourselves.
Anyway,
Every trigger is just waiting a choice.

I need it,
More than richness,
More than butter and bread,
More than wine and dope,
And I don't know why I need it.

The addiction
Is justified,
I've been told
To be the future,
To be the hope,
To be the hardworking success,
To be free while stuck with desires
Of grandness and achievements.

The cure is yet to be found
Probably in places I can't reach:
Things I have never lived,
The forced detachment of starving,
The definite destination of a free fall,
The coldness of a star roof.

The diagnosis is clear:
To have everything
Leads to a quest
Effortless to the unreachable.

If I get something to hide
I'd say it would be
Nothing to embarrasses me,
Nothing others would laugh
If only they could find,
Nothing to put me
In an inferior position.

What I would hide
Is this sense of superiority
Heir of humility
Flavored with the ignorance
Of a child that did not had a chance
To put its finger in a power plug.

Every time this pops up
I end up dangerously stronger.

Tight clothes for tight time,
Elastic thinking for elastic reality,
And all leftovers are despised:
Food, light, heat, air, time, words;
Nothing can be vainly wasted.

Correct use of words,
Food enough to frighten hunger,
Heat to keep the mood right:
All is precise,
Even our behavior,
Even our calendars,
Even our gluttony,
Even our *******.

In a fluid era,
Precision is our cicuta.
Yet, it is hard to say
Which is medicine, which is poison.
So far, the best we've being doing
Is keep taking both.

Death is certain,
There is no reason for panic.
The hard part, in my opinion,
Is to inhabit the tight coffin.