Think of uncertainty as being on the edge of a cliff:
either you fall and die
or you just gain balance and live,
they're risk and comfort. Simple analogy.

Uncertainty is that feeling
that falls between fear and hope.

You're free of deciding;
everyone else is there to see you live or die;
yet you chose to be hanging between one and the other.

Sitting, a blank piece of paper stained with water
and the grease of my sweaty fingers;
knocking my desk, keeping up with my indecisiveness...

I come up with whatever I did years ago
that I'm still unable to get over with.
No matter how much I brag about being honest,
-I'm not-
I never stop ******* lying to myself.
Every way I look at it,
I'm right, but the other one's wrong. Why?
It's not that they're dumb and can't think;
they don't care, unlike me.

A mistake turns me into a coward
and it's my fault for lingering to it,
as if I could change anything,
as if I could put myself out of blame.
I always ***** out of wherever I am
whenever I finish arguing with someone,
blaming myself for everything like a ******* kid
or an ignorant, stupid, blind and abused wife.

I think she should be abused,
but I'm not brave enough to do it myself.
I don't want to teach her anything,
that'd mean I care about her.

Then it's my arms and my legs that start shaking.
If any of you saw me, you'd think I'd been *****
and I'm shaking because of how hard the thrusting was.

Can't pay attention to whatever's in front of me,
the sadness is unbearable,
nobody's fault but mine;
then, it becomes annoying and I start *******
about what I did wrong
and what she did wrong.
I'd think both ways, we were both to blame;
but she'd never stop thinking I believed I was always right.

Childish. To think that she loved being right
and would act so stupidly, bragging about it.
What a pathetic woman.

The poor.
They're either unaware
or stupidly proud of their misery,
and live a happy life
plagued by ignorance.

They're also *******:
unwilling to learn,
never wanting to progress;
they narrow their mind
slamming the door of logic shut.

It's pathetic
how their sorry state
mirrors their uselessness.

I see their faces:
*****, like their skin color;
their pupils,
the only pure and clean feature of theirs;
their teeth, rotting and falling to the ground
like their hopes of wealth are destroyed by reality,
by their failure. They're poor.

They're the first to be aware of their poverty;
they're also the first to lie to themselves:
Why are they criminals?
Why are they stupid?
Why are they mediocre?
Why are they poor?

They're always blaming everyone but themselves,
acting like a victim,
expecting someone to stretch their hand
and tell them everything's fine;
these people end up dead:
either by other's hand or their own.

Their misery is depressing;
it makes me want to demand for an apology
for having to look at such disgusting people.

How
satisfying
is having a hated one
become your victim;
a submissive, cowardly man;
an insecure, docile,
stubborn and stupid woman.

Cruelty turns you into a young, dumb teen again:
you're full of a need for attention,
you have an urge to let your feelings out,
a need to act like you're important
and an urge not to hear but be heard;
you're always looking for ways to stand out,
your brain has devolved.

Make yourself useful.
You wanted to dissect a frog you didn't hate at all,
why wouldn't you tear a despicable ****
or a hateful **** apart as well?
What's different?
That you'll feel bad and go to jail? Are you that cowardly?
No, you just think you're not dumb.

****** turns you into a younger, dumber little girl,
playing with her dolls.
Change, aw, change. How cute.
"Hair looks stupid. She has an ugly face, change it.
Legs are too long, you change them. Too short, give her new legs."
You're never satisfied.

Do it
in any way you can.
You can say something awful to him,
beat her up, get her fired,
manipulate her.
You can even be dumb enough to ****** or **** someone
if you are that desperate,
or use honesty to your advantage.
No one likes your mind.

Regret can exist.
But it doesn't mean you should let it do so.
Serve your self. A therapist does the same,
but nothing is as satisfying as when you get things done yourself.

Even if you do it wrong.
You'll be mature for once.

I stand alone.
I then jump forward;
towards future,
nothingness.

The air blows from up north;
antarctic,
like my skin.
And it blows me.

Its painful breath
collides with each corner of self,
every single one of my dark, lone walls,
echoing notes of one;
a looping Si,
an unheard No.

The air escapes my steaming bell jar
by piercing through the top,
the boiling bulb;
letting me see veins;
letting me see red.

It escapes, so do my innards.

The piercing needle,
a black dot on a white sheet of paper.
A sentenceless period;
an accidental ink splat
shot like a bullet
through the peering barrel
of a dry, old pen.

Then the splat fades and splits.

And goes dry.

And goes white.

Gira la flor
-¡Tenue, exquisita flor!-
al son del pasar, de lo próximo y lo incierto,
al tacto del rincón eterno del ojo de Cronos
tu vestido nochebuena;
sus sangrientos espirales,
bombeando la vaporosa y gris arquitectura de tu ****,
marcando el límite -territorio-
señalando y ordenándome
sentir sino punzante y pedregosa impotencia;
ahogados en fuego llanto
gritamos yo y mi alma en silencio:
-Detente tu girar y date vuelta;
haz dos de tus girares, corazón;
dime, dime una vez más, con tu danzar;
recuérdame cual viejo frío y senil
el cómo te empecé yo a amar.

Y, delimitada mi clemencia, mi suspirar y mi poder
repetiste, con ignorancia, mi razón de lujo amar;
diste el bucle enamorado
recordando el ser de tus frías venas
recostándose en su verde esplendor;
tus contemplaciones, líneas de leer
del parentesco tuyo al griego guerrero
cuya espada y formidable escudo dorado
respondían con insolente vehemencia
a las plegarias del desdichado Héctor;
es tu intrigante idioglosia
tu secreto idioma tambaleante y curvilíneo;
la respuesta onírica, anhelada
bajo tu impetuoso y salvaje vestir nochebuena.

Códigos causantes
bañando el camisón de barroco secreto
de tu sucio y ominoso deseo;
poderíos inexistentes redactados con iris
en el más humano idioma;
la táctil y clara erección de tu registro
lubricado en el sadista idioma tuyo;
el tortuoso y cíclico tremor
de tu vestido nochebuena.