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Apr 2018
Sometimes I'm a poet
But most often
I'm an ordinary forger,
Torturing words
To fulfill my sadist desires,
Watching them cry out loud
Meaningless combinations
Purposely vague to seem intelligent.

I never played around
To see what could I do.
What could I've done?
What would I've done?
Would I change the world,
Be a tyrant advocate
Of reason, of equality, of mercy?
Would I at least understand
Why I keep my bed
Always facing the (shut) door?
Or I would be the same as I am
Running over and over
For something different
That never meant to be,
And find myself
From time to time wandering
What could I've done?
What would I've done?

We are shy to show
The little tiny mess we're made of,
Like a thief,
We hide what reveals us.

The orange night sky
Says more about my city
Than the heaven above it.
Danilo Brito Steckelberg
Written by
Danilo Brito Steckelberg  29/M/São Paulo
(29/M/São Paulo)   
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