Like a moth,
you fly toward the fire,
you’re so close now.
Do you want to warm,
to burn, or extinguish
the light?

I entered the room crowded
with tangled thoughts.
Something that shouldn’t exist
takes physical shape.

Emotions strain my heart,
stretching my tissue,
piercing with a dull tool.

I scream soundlessly
like in cosmic space
where all sounds are dead.
Smiling outside,
not to make people feel ill at ease.

Yes, I see gray, lead clouds
above human heads.
Angry Egregores stand  
and breathe joyfully.

I would run but my fear
holds me, whispering:
don’t move or you might wake up
The Writhing Dragon.

I’m still learning how to be invisible,
to one day melt in the limpid air.

A photo, a fragment of reality sent by my mother.
Just a piece of sky, one tree, and some ground,
a beautiful landscape with a hopeful, rising spring.
I am not there, but I feel a gentle wind,
carrying the scent of what is living.

On the tram ride,
I saw the damaged walls of the old house.
Some people still live there.
Are they disturbed or happier than I am?

Appearances can be so confusing and shallow.
Every perspective—another world.
The truth is scattered across small backgrounds.

Why do I feel amazed
that not every puzzle fits?

When I was returning home,
a young man sat next to me.
He started to talk about himself
and a series of unfortunate events.

He was looking at me
as if I was everything
while I was nothing more than a simple listener.

So, I got off, wishing him good luck,
knowing I wouldn't see that person again.
My life is overwhelmed by random encounters.

Now, I watch my memory of past situations.
I’m sifting through unclear interpretations,
wondering why I still dwell on symbols.

I wish I could believe
every circumstance was an opportunity,
a unique chance and not as things are today,
just casual happenstance
without coherence or deeper meaning.

Silence.
Here on this particular mountain.
Is deafening.

As I scream to myself.
For sympathy from someone else.
Or even.
Life.

But,
I'm still here in the ditch.
Laying in the grass.
Worn down and worn out.
Sleeping rough in the rocks

And,
No one hears my pleas.
For a meaning to all this.
Suffering.
Not God.
Not you.
Not anyone.

This is the furious rage of being inadequate.
While my scream pierces the sky and reverberates.
In my mind.
No one hears.
One of the few times I've been vlunerable.

Even if they did.
They wouldn't have cared.
What is a hobo to a man, but a moral failing?
At that moment.
I lost whatever faith I had in other people.

Nothing answered me in the depths of my rock bottom.
Scraping the jagged depths of my impotence.
Just the still subtle silence and the wind.
Blowing through my hair.

So I slept in the ditch.
Stopped asking for help.
Woke up in the morning.
Staving off another.

Reminder of how useless.

I truly am.

I'll etch these words onto my soul.
Embedding information on space time.
Til the black holes consume it.

I wish I was dead.
I wish I wasn't here.
I wish I wasn't breathing, thinking, seeing, feeling.
Anything other than hate, anger, and depression.

Dismal derided desolation.
Living low, down and out.
Merely getting through each day.
An eternal indictment of my distaste.

For.
Existing.

And, I take it personal.
That God won't let me die.

*******.
I didn't wanna exist.

Yet here I am.

Stuck with.
More unanswered prayers.