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I am full of ideas
But too tired to build them.
Ideas to save the world,
Ideas to get rich,
Ideas to have time in abundance,
Ideas to be remembered forever.

I am stuck
In day to day tasks,
In faking a learning,
In accomplishing requirements for a good life,
In the fear of not be self sufficient.

Will those ideas slowly die
Or will they pump me out of the quicksand?
They can only be
What I allow them to.
There once was a lake
Where it is now a cracked soil.
I pumped everything I could
Now nothing is left.

I hope for the rain
For I am too weak to seek water.
I hope to keep living
Despite the living conditions.
The harshest moment
Was when I found myself alone.
It wasn't scary because of solitude,
Or because I wanted anyone else beside me:
I recognized that feeling latent in every other moment,
With good and bad companies,
In pleasant or sad times.

The only company is loneliness
Which is just another name
For our own name.
Now I am not scared of it anymore:
I only saw the ugliness in its face
Because it is how it was always painted
When, in fact, it was just a mirror.

We were taught
To be afraid of ourselves:
That's the only possible reason
Loneliness is so fearing.
I am sorry to say it
But it is necessary to be honest:
I am sick of my politeness.
I don't mean to offend,
I don't mean to be harsh.
But I'm not sorry for everything.
I can't say no more "I'm fine"
To every "how are you?".
Maybe I'm not fine,
Maybe nobody's fine.

I want to be told
When things are wrong,
I want to be criticized
When I do a ****** writing.
I want to learn how to deal with it.

I don't care if it hurts,
Give me truth,
Give me sincerity,
Give me crude information.

I need no more
Politeness as my own shield.
The world is raw.
To be an artist
Is to drain oneself out,
To overflow life and moments and thoughts
To blow away its content
Like a balloon
Refusing to explode.
I am the hand that writes,
The hand that whips,
I am the commit,
The judge and the executioner.

The hand that chooses
To make or let go,
To punish or to caress,
To wave or to touch.

The hand that farm
That composes,
That plays,
That pray,
That curse.

The primary form of communication
The ultimate form of transforming.

I am the hand
Just that
And I am the whole world.
There is a unique type of love
In these contemporary times
Ambiguously living together
Complex types of rages and hatred.

A selective type of love
Like gravity,
Loses intensity at square of the distance.

A different type of love
That recognizes certain gestures:
Claiming, phone calls, phony calls.
And that, at times, refuses others:
An honest "I couldn't", a constructive argue.

Yet, it only exposes
The complexity of love.
Who's to say
What it is and what it isn't
Without any chance of being wrong?

Maybe it is the particular of the feelings:
It is true in the same measure
I believe it is true.

Love coexist with different types of love,
Different types of joy, arrangements, passions.
Kind of fearing and relieving:
A scaring "what are the limits"?
But also a hopeful "what are the limits"?
Pour a bit of ethic in you.
Pour ethic in you.
Pour ethic.
I shut my songs,
Never heard them,
Never played them,
But I insist telling me
They don't exist,
Just as the electricity
Remained hidden for thousands of years:
They are there, somewhere,
In eminence to pop,
To breathe,
To see the daylight.

I neglect them
But I can feel the beat,
I don't know who I'm waiting for,
Which colors they'll be born,
Echoing which tunes,
Heavy or light,
Until I'm able to
See, feel, touch and heal.

The songs are messy,
Brewed as they could,
Unborn, but alive,
Strange, but weirdly harmonic.
The engine runs
Powerful, smooth, reliable,
But misdirected:
Pushing everything towards the cliff.

There's only enough space
For a courageous maneuver
Out of the bridge
Out of the road
Into the uncertainties
Of the sideways.

Every delay
Is hope turning into risk
A maneuver getting harder to perform,
A latent accident emerging
Due to the fear of decision.

Deadlines urge us into action,
No excuses, no overthinking.
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