To write a poem properly
That is my dream
But I can't even
Remove my mask
I don't even dare
To think quietly

All my poetry is failure
Spies that pretend
To be activists
A violent movement
A laceration
That bleeds black bile

Violence circle my mind
Like vultures around corpses
The sky is touched
By the redness of my cheeks
And I end up crying
Until night comes

What remains of my poems
Are dead organs
Words that fail at being words
Mouthful gibberish
What's left of my tears?
Acid rain