Sleep, sleep
May you find
In dreams and mourns
Your awaken answers.

Sleep,
The rest is yours,
In other parts
The day is through,
People are running,
The sun out there,
But sleep in the calm
Of constellations.

Sleep,
Slow down
Hold your heartbeats,
The frequency of thoughts,
Don't miss your sleep,
Don't think of it,
Don't let it talk,
Breathe,
Breathe,
Gently breathe.

If you catch the train,
You'll go far and you'll go deep.
Sleep.

Life is a never ending circle
(Or a one time ending)
Of breaking down and recovering
Breaking down
Recovering
Breaking down.

The voice
Always talking,
That fears,
that shuts all other voices,
That voice that kills
Anger and contempt
(But still a wrathful
Even in it's sober tone),
That voice,
That numbing voice,
That fades all screaming,
That knows you're never enough,
That filters your desires,
Our worst desires,
Our desire to **** everyone,
To **** our parents,
To bring suffering to those who at moments we hate,
To just explode and cry and beat,
That voice that shuts this all up
(It's just a ******* reptile screaming):
Go to hell.

Let life resonate.
Pulse, pulse, pulse
Vulnerably.

Every attempt to reach an answer
Is wrong fundamentally:
The premise that there is an answer.

Truth is only found
Where it cannot be sought;
Every rationalization is a lie
That, nevertheless, makes sense
If we believe in it.

Pure truth is overrated
For it is real
And real we cannot conceive.

The myriad of colors
only expose a fraction of possible existences;
it's not about colors, but about divergence.

The inner world
extended to contain the whole universe,
living side by side
with frozen possibilities
that never came to exist
in order to expose a truth
that earned this title
only by the chance
and rigorousness of time.

Only experience convert
thought into truth.

In my bones
and in my skin,
I can feel it,
all of it.

My heart pumps
warm blood
just to meet the freezing
of the coldness inside,
and the coldness outside,
the ice of every look,
the crystal of every saying,
the burning cold
of a perhaps deserved indifference.

Suddenly, the phantom of your touch
heat all of me in my endless fury
to repeat all my mistakes once more.

At some point
I'll let you down.
I don't like it,
But I'll do.

I expect too much of me
But I'm only a repeated self,
Running the board in circles,
Skipping houses from time to time,
But inevitably reaching endless wells.

It's not a lack of love,
It's a lack of self love.

Life is actually simple:
Live or die.

Little by little
Our moments sum up
Who we are.

If I say nothing
Would it still be a poem?

The absence of words
Is the greatest triumph
Of a poet
With so much to say.