COMET

I fought white ghosts to come and find you, Jesus, 
I crossed my inner deserts and all fears, 
to come and discover you, and I'm tired, 
I walked too much, 
I broke many shoes and lost a lot of water on the long journey. 
And I didn't know where to go, I'm a homeless girl, 
with a star on my forehead, 
and they call me Comet, 
and I don't know where to go anymore 
and I follow your star because Christmas will come 
but I will die in a dumpster or maybe at the sea, 
maybe not you will see me among the sheep and the shepherds, 
perhaps I will be elsewhere and I will finally have found the end of my pain.
Dear Jesus, here I am, I'm a girl destroyed by life, 
and I'm not a beautiful presence in your crib and I won't be able 
to stay there or will you welcome me anyway?
They say you were a friend of the poor 
nd I have nothing to give you, and my heart is tired, 
and I'm tired, 
and the journey is over and still deserted inside me, 
no plants, no flowers, I woke up this morning moody.
The sky is gray inside me and I have only one thought 
and will that star shine for me too that night? 
It will probably be the last thing I will see in this life.

ALL THE COLOURS OF NATURE

MY SATURDAY MORNING

Yesterday I went to cry by a stream. There was a dragonfly that inspired the poem I wrote on the spot. I sat down and took pictures afterwards. I was very sad and looking at the trees I felt in company. I took some pictures tomorrow so I can show you the video of this place where I live.

COMING

For a few months now I have been feeling a little better, despite the spring.

I have been in my personal "dark timeline" which in my case is apparently all roses, flowers and perfumes, like in science fiction movies, where you land in the new world or on the new planet and everything seems perfect before you realize that in reality you are in the belly of a disgusting alien monster.

All perfect, but all rotten from the marrow, you realize it when you look to the side, while you are turning around, and you notice that the facade collapses, goes out, like a holographic image that disappearing reveals a dark, gloomy and rotting cave.

I'm back here.

It all sucks the same, but at least you can see it right away.
At least my inner monster always has the same gaze.
Winter is coming even though it is midsummer and sweat is the new rain.

THE VIRGIN FOREST

You have a virgin forest in your head, it seems easy, it seems candid, but no.

Intricate, colorful, warm, but above all humid. That humid monsoon, fragrant, soaked and green.

Cursed deciduous trees that stumble the way, and soft brambles darkly intertwined.

I want to look inside. Go in there. Make room for me, get my hut to enjoy in peace. Jerk off as I please, under a rain that comes like a dense nebula.

Bathe me with the thoughts that you enclose in that casket. Precious and fearful. 
Get me dirty with peat. 

Give me what you are while I dig. Give yourself as a gift to anyone. Shower me with your embarrassed and excited obscenities.

Don't spare me the evil, give me that too. I am the blank canvas, for once and a thousand more if I like it.

Be a serving cavalier for thoughts, works and provocations. No flowers, there is no space in the jungle. Not below. Not here at the bottom. Not in here.

I am the epiphet, which lets its filthy resin run down the trunk, which it leads straight into the heart of your belly.

GENEVIÈVE

She was killed by the electric current,
a home accident,
while he was cooking,
while doing the laundry,
while dusting,
and he sang no more.
She was killed by the blender,
while trying to maintain the diet,
while he was fighting against the tomatoes,
while cleaning the floors.
She was killed while no one noticed her,
while the others slept,
while the sun was shining and
the flowers bloomed.

( Dedicated to all invisible women who work at home without ever getting paid.) 

BLUE STARS

If only I could walk
between the chiaroscuro of your irises,
light up my days
with the lights of your every memory,
if only I had the key
of that French garden
which makes the contours of your face
guiding breath for each completed painting;
if only i could stay there,
stop, hold out your hand,
waiting for your name,
your veins like purple wisteria,
your skin like peony petals,
and listen to the rhythm of your beats outside the heart,
touch the shores of the lake
and make them tremble
in the reflection of the other shore where I wait for you to blossom and we are alone on a branch of blue star flowers. 

THE ANARCHY OF FLOWERS

How can anarchy be controlled? The primordial flow where the reason is lost. Where many fall few have really tried. It is not science, nor speculation, it is from the heart that everyone can be right. It is never too late to say otherwise, it is the fruit of the past, it is just a sunk cost. So don’t wait for disaster, question yourself, find out who you are and then that’s the direction.
Do not look in the dark, it hides nothing, the means and resources are in the open, just find them. And let’s stop with the pity, it’s never too late to “start over”.
We need to remove the heavy burdens and embark on the journey, the road is long so it is inevitable not to lose sight of the goal. Let’s forget about the ego, it is a mirror that alters perception, a crazy mechanism that makes us go wrong.
The true Self is within us, we leave the healing power to ourselves, we are powerful tools of will and persuasion. And if it is true that Thought always dominates, it is really time to teach it and start dreaming, laughing and playing.
At a certain point, changing your lifestyle is a choice, an obligation and a duty. Revolutionize to believe, conquer your orbit and start spinning. Harmony belongs to the Universe and there is no real center, the trick is in balance, we are potentially all in the winner’s chariot. The true Rebel defeats the old Self, only to be reborn and blossom like a flower.

MY GARDEN WITH HOLES

My garden is full of puddles, holes made by dogs, pieces of branches flown in the storm, bare trees and no flowers because the mice have eaten the bulbs. And I'm very sad that I can't have a nice garden but the weather is awful here. It is very cold and there is already snow on the mountains and yesterday it was only 4 degrees. The house is very humid and even if we heat it later it becomes cold again, it does not keep the heat, it is an old house and it is a torment. Here in my area life is very sad now, especially for me because I don't have the green pass and I can no longer go to the gym, to the theater, to the cinema. I always have to stay at home. Our Italian government has taken away all freedom from us and people like me, who cannot get the vaccine, are limited in everything in life. I am getting depressed and I can't stand this deprivation of freedom. Now in Italy there is this dictatorship that is destroying the country's economy and the people.

WE’RE LITTLE FLOWERS

We are little flowers that are not seen,
we don’t have sparkling makeup,
gorgeous dresses.
We are simple flowers,
little souls in the midst of life.
Tiny breaths of a moment of infinity.
We are small flowers that grow asking for nothing.
It is enough for us to have the sky above and the earth below us.
Have you ever stopped to observe the wildflowers? Have you ever reflected on the beauty of colors, their shades which not even the most daring painter would be able to reproduce? In their apparent simplicity, wildflowers hide a great pride, a strength and a determination that leads them to stand up among others without anyone having asked for it, without anyone having sown, watered, wanted them. I admire them for their tender beauty, their colors and their spontaneity. Simple and yet each of them to see well is perfect and wonderful in his being. Sometimes I feel like wildflowers, one among many, simple, but with that simplicity that hides a strength that only those who want to look beyond appearances can find. Fair and modest like wildflowers. Shy yet sure of her own worth like wildflowers.
Have you ever appreciated the beauty of a wild flower? I love them. They don’t have a well-kept garden where they can show off their beauty. They have no loving hands that take care of them. They don’t have a long life to be admired. They grow in inaccessible places and bend to the elements of time. But they are tenacious, bold. And on their slender stem they will blossom again in spite of those who do not find them beautiful and those who are unable to appreciate their scent. Isn’t that a nice way to describe women? Women who, like a wildflower, always show everyone the strength to be reborn after one or a thousand difficulties.

	

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