Okay my bad
Can we move ahead?
I wanna know where are you going..?
Don't take what's left
Lay on my chest
You took my breath but how did you notice..?

Smile like glass
Eyes so deep
I fall in love what reflects me
Pride is bad
I run for safety
Humble myself I finally found my calling.

Bruisy clouds slouch across a grayed glower
on a brisk, anesthetized Tuesday.

All these people, coming and going on the walk,
ignoring the sobs of the frayed man who digs

squelched cigarette butts out of the mulch
packing the dead-headed elm at the bus stop.

I cook a small lunch that threads the studio
with citrus fingers, above the coal painting

that dries flat on the Sicilian game table,
but my mind is elsewhere. I am thousands

of miles from this bricked-in niche where scotch
and stout stand sentinel on the granite bar:

I am walking step by step through Lansdowne,
past the silent salt-nose of each slate-slanted house,

on my way to the sand where the power plant
reaches upward with muscled black arms

so that even the froth withdraws into a curtain
of coming rain... strange, always a gray rain,

that comes so quickly. It heavies the sweater
of the yellowed dog-walker, steadies the rasp

of the cigarette digger, peppers the mirror
that spreads its silver shell across the asphalt.

This littling rain calls me back from Sandymount
and its endless bench. The black paint is dry now,

& the old year has died, flung to the floor like a rag
you cough into when you breathe the wrong way.

The  germ of a seed is a small poem, and it becomes great if it is said and written with Love, it sips and refreshes water, beyond the objective of uncertainty, it will not find artificial interference, or if in the time it will exposes itself under the sun it will remaines in its youth, ****** and pure will be its flowering, like delicious fruits it will form words that are a littling affected in every aspect. Among the pensive marshes of my worries I will find in many sentences shady rhymes and I will make them new and harmonious poems. I will take the pink rose counting all its petals and leaves, painting the poems in the lines of a story even if in crumpled sheets I will write long prose Nor will I ever reject my poem if before I will have not item well inculcated to others before being sacrificed to the judgment of a human, it will be the novel of the eternal will and I will draw my verdict, before I can fathom its fate and can meet maybe even his sweet death and maybe fate will galopp his future decline.


The seed germ The seed germ is a small poem, and it becomes large if it is said and written with Love, it sips and refreshes the water, beyond the objective of uncertainty, it will not find artificial interferences, or if the time when he will be exposed under the sun will remain in his youth, ****** and pure will be its flowering, as delicious fruits will form words that are a little affected in every aspect. Among the pensive swamps of my worries I will find in many sentences shaded rhymes and transform them into new and harmonious poems. I will take the pink rose counting all its petals and leaves, painting the poems in the lines of a story even if in wrinkled sheets I will write for a long time in prose Nor will I ever reject my poetry if before I do not have the object well inculcated to others before to be sacrificed to the judgment of a human being, will be the novel of the eternal will and I will draw my verdict, before I can understand his destiny and be able to meet perhaps even his sweet death and perhaps fate will gallop his future decline.