An order, a load.
paid or not
It does not matter.
Forced to write.
With nothing to say and so much to explain.
Disguising the filth of my desires.
Disguising the ego of nobility.
Writing love instead of sex.
so different so close
I try to impress.
Even more damage.
I no longer seek caresses, I prefer to turn words into stones.
Throwing my pain at you with blows camouflaged in calls for help.
Like a siren with a beautiful song, I seek to drown you.
I do not know if to be able to resurface to the surface.
Maybe it's just revenge.
Poets speak without emotions, but armed with words that move.
And chasing readers I find you.
I lose the papers, I write, narrate or suffer...
I don't want to be your poet, I prefer to be your lover.
Again the reason.
Calculator of uncertainties, probabilities, coincidences, compatibilities...
Or the wise words of daytime friends.
Friends who rejoice in our failures
My sword will cut off the hand that offers to lift me.
For reminding me that I am on my knees, once again, tired, defeated.
His dirty hand cleanses my pride and with a human smile condemns me again
let me die
If it bothers you to see it, don't look at me. You don't always do it.
You don't give me what I want, you remind me of what I don't have.
You impose a fucking mission on me,
already failed in its origin.
This is how you heal your wounds, false prophets you know the same as I do from the future: Nothing.
By guaranteeing my slavery, you make yours light.
I see the chain and I don't see my oppressor... God
Are you? It's me?
again are my words
I won't be able to finish the assignment.
Tell me what you wanted to read.
And I'll tell you what I wanted to write.
Poetry does not have happy days, happiness does not last as long as it takes to read itself.
Forced to write.
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