I don't know what to be near me
because I spent all my time,
trying to survive the social voracity.

Even with the ****** floor,
everyone continues walking.
The death of another man
is nothing compared
to the lack of time

Such is the pain
which we pretend to bear
so that they don't forget us.
Such is the happiness
which we pretend to have
so that they remember us.

… well, I shut up
in front of the beauty
of my lands…

I don't know how to be who I am,
because long time ago I was hipnotized
by the exterior of this world
– and such is its vivacity.

Although there's so much
to appreciate
quietly,
I can't stop
thinking of us.

However much the sumptuous flowers
are things to dream about,
we should not forgive us
so naturally,
especially with
so many open wounds.

I

Write parnassian verses under my skin,
because today I don't want something meaningful,
but detailed and rational.
I'll be impassible, but objective.

Nobody was never as memorable as you,
maybe for having been someone sincere.
So sincere that even I recall your poems:
loose phrases in old papers.

I feel like we've never met
when suddenly we began
to seek perfection of words.

I feel like we've been lost
inside a world
which doesn't value us.

II

Write symbolist verses under my skin,
because today I don't want something realist,
but dreamlike and mysterious.
I'll be suggestive, but subjetive.

Nobody was never as sentimental as you,
maybe for having been someone crazy.
So crazy that even I admire your lack of lucidity,
declaimed by sung verses.

I feel like we've never met
when suddenly we began
to reject our own reality.

I feel like we've been lost
inside a world
which doesn't satisfy us.

III*

There's no perfection in those verses
just like there are no colors in that life.
And I feel like we've been lost
when, in fact, we've been free,
because we're freer
when we're alone.

My father lets me wear
short skirts
and bikinis
and pants that hug my thighs
but he will not allow me
to leave the house
in a button down shirt
and suspenders.

A lot of time spent
having miscellaneous conversations with the air.
Even stupid questions like "how's your day" acting as if it'd give an answer, or, even more,
a whisper of inspiration
It's an obligation, or, maybe a delegation, or, a confirmation?
that we will create a masterpiece before insane peace
With a piece of our minds becoming a little less peaceful by the day.
Soon our minds will turn into violent catapults hurling out sentence after sentence making our paper bleed
                                                     Black, Blue, Red, Gray
Joining a cult created by the letters we created ourselves
falling into the abyss these stanzas and paragraphs invite us into
And don't get me wrong, it sounds terrible, but it's home.
There's no place like it.
Where these words are so much more than words,
they're family.
But frequently, we get into arguments that erupt into something sinister
and our desks become littered with papers that wilt and wither into nothing more than liters upon liters
of a type of alcoholic beverage that'll tempt us into becoming outspoken drunkards
But that's the goal:
*to be outspoken.