We all lie.
Even I
Even now
Even on the last three lines
Even on the last line
Even now
Even I
Even…

I tell them,
Over and over again
But they don’t understand.
And they’re not to blame.
In this world where **** and ***
Are the law,
A girl who reads
No one finds appealing,
No one understands.

I guess they’ve never looked
In those kind of eyes,
And even if they did
I guess they never took the time
To look deep enough!
To witness the spark,
The light that comes out
When they speak of love,
Poetry, when they speak of life!

When they speak of grief
Pain, and lost love
Of the characters they liked,
And how they felt in that moment
How they died, how they survived!
I guess they never looked
And even if they did,
I guess they never took the time
To look deep enough!

To witness the beauty, the love
That in their eyes
Surrounded by pain, death
And an infinite number of words
Silently sleeps, silently lies.
I guess they never looked,
And even if they did
I guess they never held the key
To open that lock, to tap into that light!

To bath in the fountain of emotions
That she holds locked in her soul,
That she holds carefully,
Locked in her heart.

Fall in love!
That’s all I can say for now and all the advice I can give, fall in love!
With what, with whom, or how you do it, well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you fall in love.
After you have done that (the falling in love part), everything else is unimportant.
Yes, there are things like:
The first poem you write it has to gush out of your soul like a stream of water that just found its way from a deep cave;  turbulent, fast, and impure at the same time!
It has to contain every piece of your soul in it, cause that’s what poetry really is, your soul morphed into a different thing, morphed into a black ink that slithers on a white page, imprinting yourself on it.
But these are details, only details that you will be doing unconsciously, whether you like it or not!
The first poem you will be writing won’t be smart; but it doesn’t have to be smart, structured, or even good!
What it needs to be, is YOU! You, and no one else! No Frost or Bukowski; No Poe or Neruda; No Whitman or Baudelaire; No Keats or Yeats… or anything of their kind.
Cause trust me, if you are able to keep being yourself while writing it, your first poem will be better than any other poem written by any of them, and whoever says otherwise, is a liar! (and probably hates you)
Your first poem will contain all the hate, joy, pain, greed and fear you’ve ever felt, and yet, it will turn out to be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever did; the most beautiful thing you’ve ever had.
But, enough of my nonsense;
Start writing, start falling…

How strange it is-
this brain.
How strong it is
and how weak I am,
and how far from me it is-
this brain of mine,
this part of me that does
whatever it wants
and never asks!

How strange-
how strange it is
and how weak I am
and how far from me it is,
this brain of mine
that I can’t control,
that I can’t teach-
that I can’t reach.

How strange it is-
and how strange I am
and even though it is mine,
it still is a thing
I can’t control, I can’t hold
I can’t direct, I can’t understand
I can’t make it mine!

How strange it is-
all this thing,
all this process of thinking
of acting, of believing!
How strange,
and yet,
how simple everything is;
Just biology, chemistry,
with a little touch of spirituality.

But still…
it makes no sense!

Everything is a poem,
Everything is poetry.
Useless words that come from you
And useless words that come from me
Trust me,
When watched from other angles
Other eyes, other minds
Other perspectives, other times;
They all sound,
They all taste,
They all touch you
And give the same sensations…
As does poetry!

Melancholic people.
******’ melancholic people.
Always craving what has passed
what was lost, what it didn’t last.
In words, lines, books,
in the lyrics of songs,
in the music of music
or in the stupid thoughts of the stupid.

Bring them peace,
they will dream of war.
Bring them war,
they will paint with birds your walls.
Bring them love,
and your head in a spike will rot.
Bring them hate,
and they will thank you for it!

These…
Melancholic people,
these beings who can only do three things:
Breathing, eating, and *******!
These..
These puppets I love from a long time ago,
these beings of light
that spend their whole life
hiding under a brown facade of snow.

Afraid,
Afraid to live
Afraid to touch, to feel
Afraid to take off your hands
And show your beautiful smile
Afraid to be seen, to be admired!
Afraid to crawl, to clutch the ground
Afraid to get up, to rise
After they beat you,
After you have been crushed!
Afraid to fall, and hit the bed
Afraid to close your eyes, to dream
Cause you are afraid…
Afraid, that when you wake up
You will live on a nightmare
So why risk?
Why fall asleep
When you can stay awake!

Always self conscious, always safe
Close to insomniac madness
Never dreaming,
Always awake, always afraid…