I just put out a cigar
I grab a pen and
start writing words and
I'm listening to a song and
I'm sitting at my desk but
I'm not here and I don't
know where I am. My mind
                               has drifted and this pen
                        gained life of some sort.
                                                                   Brilliant!
                                             Just brilliant. I feel light and
              I feel some sort of gravity in the tip of my fingers. I'm not in control but I'm in control.
                                                                  Words are spilled and
                                                                  thoughts are unscrambled
                                                                  and apparent random phrases
                                                                  are made and I make a full stop.

I read it,



I think it's a *******,
But am I right?
I just don't care and keep writing words and I'm still listening to a song and I'm lying down in a warm beach with dark waters and glass instead of sand and I see the moon, so big and so bright, as I look up and I saw only a ceiling, so big and so bright as the moon, and tears running down the walls and the beat of the song continues and the pen writes at it's own rythm, faster and faster as the song moves on and as the world moves on. Wars are made and wars are ended, revolutions are made and revolutions are ended, empires rise and empires fall, words are chosen and words are discarded, but what makes it art?
HONESTY.


If I said everything
what I think about
every second,
People would think
that I'm insane.

Now
you see me

now you see me
and
my heart
and mind

now you
hear the sound

the sound
of my pulsating heart

while art
is being made
in a drowned
reality

while grenades
of liberality
and of triviality
and of unreality
and mortality
are being made

sanatorium sings
and you see me

as the truth of
reality is
smooth and cruel
let's say
as a poet
or
as a ghoul
on church school

as the players plays
as the thinkers think
as the rulers rule
as the free free

i just light
another cigar

But the right
are still right

We all want something
We all crave something
We all lust for something
We all believe that when
We get “that”:
We will be happy

But the truth is: You will get “that” and
You will want something else
You will crave something else
You will lust for something else
Thus you'll never be truly “happy”

So, live day by day
Moment by moment
enjoy the ride of life

Fear, frustration, dissatisfaction
Will end

Accept that you'll never be truly “happy”
and all that remains it's actually the thing
We all crave for.

I just put out a cigar.
I grab a pen and
start writing words and
I'm listening to a song and
I'm sitting at my desk but
I'm not here and I don't
know where I am. My mind
                     has drifted and this pen
                  gained life of some sort.
                                                        Brilliant!
                                  Just brilliant. I feel light
and I feel some sort of gravity in the tip of my fingers. I'm not in control
but I am in control.
                                 Words are spilled and
                                thoughts are unscrambled
                              and apparent random phrases
                            are made and I make a full stop.

I read it,


I think it's a *******,
But am I right?
I just don't care and keep writing words and I'm still listening to a song and I'm lying down in a warm beach with dark waters and glass instead of sand and I see the moon, so big and so bright, as I look up and I saw only a ceiling, so big and so bright as the moon and tears running down the walls and the beat of the song continues and the pen writes at it's rythm, faster and faster as the song moves on and as the world moves on.

Wars are made and wars are ended,
revolutions are made and revolutions are ended,
empires rise and empires fall,
words are chosen and words are discarded,
but what makes it art? Honesty.

     If I said everything
     what I think about
     every second,
     People would think
     that I'm insane.

To do magic I’ve to believe in magic
Even knowing that’s not real
This Inconsistency deceive is tragic
Is it real? Is it surreal?  But
The mask blurs my vision
Since I get up until I lay down to sleep
I can’t find the appeal
It’s an incision that will never heal
And, oh yes, it is deep and
It’s hard to keep but harder to tell
So, I live breath by breath
In an almost constant, state of restless
The air I breed makes a dance of death
Great and honest for my eyes to see
Since I get up until I lay down to sleep
I want, and I can, but I won’t?
Freedom costs,
The weight weights,
A man gasps
And I? I just breed
With an heavyweight core
To whom I want to play a trick
To untangle myself from this burden
Cause if I wasn’t I
Maybe he wouldn’t write
Or maybe he wouldn’t  be alive
If I wasn’t I
I wouldn’t be me
It’s actually funny how the universe works
The randomness or not
The most minuscule single variation
Could affect everything or nothing
Could mean the difference between life and death
Between me, he, or you.
Magic could even exist!

I randomly exist to be
to touch the spectrum in braille
like a mad alchemist who see
through the veil
It is both a blessing and a curse
to see the world with my own eyes
makes everything seems like a rehearse
everyone tries and everyone dies
but what I do, is not a science
To live is an art
'cause if we really live
everything we do is a piece of art
even a gone passion in an artificial world
or artists with eyes of dead artists
all whirled up in fear
as instead of using it as a premiere
chance to give the eye inside
a chance to see through the veil
to be untied and alive