Is it hunger
Or anxiety,
Or a desire to keep concentrated?
The result is
A ***** keyboard,
Sticky fingers,
Unnecessary eating
And a need to brush the teeth.

What can I do
Against myself?
I want different things
And how to choose
Between a regret now
And a regret in the future?

The desire for greatness
Is what keeps me
From doing things.

I am so worried
To be great,
To deploy perfection,
That it hurts to engage projects,
To produce,
To create.

It paralyzes me
And nothing is done.

Never to be badly spoken,
Never to be praised.
Forgetfulness or a change
are the only destinies.

Soft voice and lyrics
Gently moving the air
Accompanied by a well played guitar
To be my company for the night.

When somnolence reach me
I will be far gone
Surfing scales, tones, harmonies,
Knowing not where to arrive:
Drifting in words
To be touched by the waves,
Asking questions
Whose answers will always be indirect.

The guitar invites me
To 50 bpm,
To calmer thoughts,
And, all of sudden
All I can hear
Is its reverberation
Within my empty body,
Filled only by the vibrations
To guide me to the real me:
A thoughtless being
Immersed in a mix of feelings,
Sensations, senses and faith.

My new bedroom
Is the closure of a history,
A roller coaster of joy,
Boredom, unity, experiences and routine.

My new bedroom has a beautiful morning light
To wake me up early
To remember of a work to be done,
Of a walk out of home.

My new bedroom
Is my new status
Half way to freedom,
Half way to be stuck to my past,
Half way of happiness,
Half way of longing.

My new bedroom
Is a statement of my privacy
Although I often feel naked anywhere.

My new bedroom
Contains my vision,
My order,
My mess.

My new bedroom
Is the sign of movement,
Of stepping forward,
Even though it is inside the same house
With the same inhabitants,
With the same routine.

It is just a bedroom.
It is all that is different.
It is a conquest.
It is nothing more than a small change.

There is something bittersweet in loneliness.
Something of beauty,
Something of despair.
Something of inner connection
And something of being stuck in the void.

The need to be lonely
Follows the need for freedom:
To be a prisoner of our body only,
To be limited by nature and nothing else.
To be unattached.

But there is always someone else inside:
Someone who is not me,
But can't be anybody else.
Combinations of faces, voices and ideas
Conflicting with the silence
We are behind all disguise.

To be lonely
Is to feel sad and fulfilled,
To find completeness in the missing parts,
But also to feel happy and desolated.

The rain reveals
The sewer lines
Tired of being invisible,
The rats, its undesired inhabitants,
The worms drowning on the soil,
Cockroaches in despair.

The rain reveals
What was hidden
But was there all the time.
What wasn't to be seen,
The undergrounds of a life
Exposed to appearances and nothing more.

The rain reveals
The superficiality
Of empty plastics,
The inherent lightness of lack of content,
The inextinguishability of the bottles,
Trails of the inevitable return to the sea.

The rain reveals
Our blurred vision,
Our need of a shelter,
Our frail grit
That fades with thunders,
Our discomfort aversion,
Our windows to disconnect the world.

The rain reveals
The violence of the beauty,
The victory of the unpredictable,
The animal and amoral cruelty
That lays over the homeless
And the human and immoral cruelty
Of us, who feel only pity.

The rain reveals
And nothing more.
Reveal itself and, thus, exposes,
But it isn't what it's here for.
It comes, simply, and ends.
It is and desires nothing,
Has no purpose nor role.

It happens by getting heavy
And crumbles as it can.
It happens for being unbearable.
It happens for it  was sea once
And sea it urges to be.

It could be anything but water
But chose to be what it could choose
To be solid, gas or liquid.

The rain reveals
That the strength
Is in transformations and movements:
All roots shall succumb.

I sink,
I drawn,
I try to swim
In this vast quicksand,
Swinging arms
To desperately grasp
Any remains of firm soil.

I feel the sand up to my nose
But I fight:
I have this feeling
That somewhere
I'll find a branch to hold on,
An air bubble
To keep me breathing.

I don't care being defeated:
It will eventually happen.
To accept it is my revolt.
I'll stand against the inevitable
For resigning is confirm it.

The revolution
Can only happen
Inside out.

When will I be back?
I've been away for a while,
Further and further
Every time I delay a return.

I'm losing my sense
Of distance,
I start to forget an old accent,
New monuments replace
Those old ones
That once reminded me
About discipline, order, status:
Like modern art replacing baroque.

How much my steps define me?
My twin is only different from me
Because we've been in different places?
My comeback still bring me back
To whom of the many I've been?

History is not only what has been,
It is the shape of today,
The idea of tomorrow,
An undeniable driving force
Pointing at some place ahead
We're often unable to see.

To be back
Is to be closer to the future.

Whenever I look at myself
Through the glass and platinum
I'm looking for answers:
Am I different than yesterday?
Am I older?
Do I look properly to whatever I'll do?

But I am the limit of the mirror.
My skin blocks the inside,
My judgment holds answers underground,
My eyes refuse to see things I don't want.

I am my own limitations,
I, alone, built my limits.
I look into a mirror
But it can only contain
Tiny fragments of past,
Never a glance of what will be.

What I see is not me.
My eyes and my teeth
Can only be seen indirectly.
There is no truth in any emulation:
My own vision is a trick,
My hearing, an apparatus,
My touch, nothing more than
My electrons rejecting your electrons.

The mirror is just a shell.
It will never contain,
Never be fulfilled,
Tells no stories,
Say no things.
The mirror is what you ask it.
An image so distant
Our souls refuse to enter.

Eyes that see no image,
Skin that touches nothing,
A life unable to die.
A concept so absurd we fall in love.