the rulers of time must be blindfolded
they invent voidless words, old eager hands
in this time without dimensions
in this space devoid of meaning
they delete their mothers from themselves
the warmth of bodies is imprisoned in anguish
the body invades the mind, and the mind replies,
it invades the body, an impossible conversation
thoughts are transitional landscapes
but thinking might rebell and fragment into a standstill
time filled my mind and stuffed my throat
to tighten the unthinkable pain
on days with thick blood and stagnant winds
no words to fill the void, the unbearable hopelessness
the letters got destroyed by the gastric acid
and so I became... the reflux of pain

Life is like a ticking clock,
No one knows how much's in stock,
No one knows what lies ahead,
No one knows when they'll be dead,

Life is a process not given clarity,
But no soul lives for all of eternity,
No soul is aware of when they depart,
No soul in here knows they're falling apart,

Life is so simple and yet it is hard,
It is hard to live it out with pure heart,
With or without these days I still live,
As for my heart there's not much to give,

Life is so cruel and that's just the rule,
Sometimes absurd I think I'm a fool,
Sometimes I wish things would have worked out,
Sometimes I cry and sometimes I shout,

Life is a path both uphill and down,
It is a pathway on which one might drown,
One better be careful and get a grip,
If on this dark pathway they wish not to slip,

Life is so short you better take note,
Take note of all the things you wrote,
The things you wrote may go down in history,
Though as far as I know they remain a mystery.

From ecstasy to anguish—
Now I fizzle out.
Life felt tiny, like a caterpillar's tomb.
There is dribble on my chin during Sunday afternoons on the lazy and happy Côte d’Azur—
Patience in my womb.
I would make coffee fresh from the bean,
A failure of my task within,
That which I began again with laboured chagrin;
And now it seems, evidently, I appear as apparition,
Like a toad in a pool,
Walking the gentle tides of doubt.

You were kind to me and very sweet.
You were a cigarette dipped in honey.
We would pose for tableau vivant and be influential.
Then the rain came and grey clouds were sad—
I felt like a stool.
Cry! Cry!
Woe! Weep!...
That's how I wept, in my squalor and gloom.

Do days swallow time?
Or does time swallow the days of our lives?
What memories get digested, while some are excreted?
The past starves to be remembered
after it's long forgotten.
The future hungers to begin,
heightened by the uncertainty.
The rarity of simply coincidence,
is like a blue orchard on the moon.

In the stillness of the house, silence isn't peace,
The echoes of anger, the storm that won't cease.
Little Nebula, with eyes so wide,
Sits in the shadows, her heart tries to hide.
She hears the yelling, the slamming of doors,
Her mother’s soft cries, her father’s cruel roars.
She’s too young to understand, but she feels the pain,
Watching the destruction, again and again.
Her hands are shaking, her chest filled with dread,
And the monsters inside her grow with each thread.
She’s just a child, trapped in the storm,
With a mother who cries and a father so torn.
The air is thick, and the walls close in tight,
As the darkness takes over, there’s no end in sight.
Every night she hides, behind the old couch,
Her tiny body shaking, her heart a soft touch.
She can’t stop the voices, the harsh, bitter sound,
Of her father’s fury that makes the house drown.
But one night, a spark ignites in her chest,
A whisper of power, a truth she can’t suppress.
With trembling hands, she grabs the knife,
Her body quakes, but she’s done with this life.
Her father stands tall, with rage in his eyes,
But Nebula steps forward, no fear in her cries.
In a blink, it was done, no turning back,
Her father’s cold body, no life to track.
Her mother stood still, frozen with dread,
Then turned, walked out, leaving her for dead.
In the dead of the night, Nebula stands alone,
Her father’s blood staining the cold, hard stone.
Her mother’s footsteps fade into the dark,
Leaving behind a girl who’s now lost her heart.
She stares at the walls, the silence so loud,
The girl in the mirror, lost in a shroud.
She’s just a child, with her innocence torn,
A life that was stolen, a soul that’s worn.
The waves of time crash, the memories stay,
Of the man she killed and the mother who ran away.
Alone in the silence, with no one to care,
Nebula whispers, “It’s not fair."
The waves of time will never end,
For Nebula’s pain has no one to mend.
She stands in the shadows, her heart black as night,
Haunted by the ghosts of the past, out of sight.

I walk with the glow of a stella, unmoved by time’s passing hand. The years fly, yet the days crawl— like the last drop clinging to the highest cloud, waiting to fall. I wish my tears could be time itself, so maybe I’d live a little longer. Maybe I’d stream to empty myself, like a bucket of tears thrown to the ground— brief, swift, a life undone.

What devilry is this, Consciousness keen,  
That tempts us to see what ought be unseen?  
A plague upon survival's ilk,
This thinking beast now wrapped in silk.
No longer content to forage and breed,  
now dabbles in lofty thoughts of need.  
Hope . . . , you deceitful *****, how you mock  
Promising grace while hurrying the clock.
To question, to yearn, to toss and to flail,  
The folly to search and drink from the grail.  
Yet, mad hope persists, to soothe our lot,  
and reason abandons the mind it begot.