PIECE BY PIECE

When they tell you that you are bloody cold, distant, suspicious, bitch .. when they tell you that you never fall in love, that you don't give what you get, that you never trust anyone .. When they tell you that around you you have created a barrier and do not let anyone get near you .. Do not get angry, they can't know. They can't know that you created that barrier with the bricks they threw at you. They don't know how long you had to go through before being who you are. They don't know how much love you gave before you didn't have any more. They don't know how many times you've always fallen in love with the same person, and how many times you've said to yourself "this is the right time" and instead each time it was always the same story. They do not know that you loved that person so much that you compensated "his non-love" for your "too much love". They do not know that that "too much love" has often given others a way to trample you, put you in the background, take advantage of your good faith. They don't know that love was your destruction. They don't know you had the damn habit of putting heart and soul into everything you did. They don't know that you have given your loving heart into the wrong hands. They don't know that every person you let into your life for an excuse or another has found a way to leave, and every time they left they carried a piece of your heart. . They don't know how long it took you to collect each piece of that heart and try to put it together. Piece by piece, step by step .. And if I could show it, it would be exactly like that. Wounded, bruised, destroyed, broken, attached by a thread to keep him together .. Yet looking at him, despite everything he has not stopped beating. Do not apologize, do not be ashamed if you are no longer the person you were, if now you have more scars than ever, if now before trusting it takes a long time, if you no longer give that love, if you are suspicious and many times even a bitch .. scolding yourself for all this you have only learned to protect that heart that too many times you have allowed to hurt.

MY TREE HANDS

Perhaps, in all these years,
people weren't that cruel
and I didn't need to swallow all that ash
of dull smiles between the lips.

Maybe I didn't notice and left on the street
stumps of missing hugs,
like mournful candlesticks
turned on to my loneliness.

For this I am satisfied
to warm myself with crumbled phoenixes;
and I've spent bland days,
with his mouth too full of me to talk about love.

It would have been nice to lean on each other,
like hands on glass,
but I didn't have the courage to undress,
because being transparent is fragile,
and it's easy to break.

LET’S SIT TOGETHER

I don’t understand those people who when they turn one more year get demoralized because they feel older and older or who say they don’t give a damn. Instead of focusing on the fewer years they have left to live, they should be happy that they lived up to that point. Each additional year of life is a wonderful milestone to celebrate, as every day of life should be. Just for the fact of opening your eyes and having another day to live in front of you, you should smile and try to feed that smile all day. When you are young, you take everything for granted, including your health, and you don’t fully realize the extraordinary power you have right now. We often focus on a happiness that will only be achievable in the near future, but the future is only our imagination. Today it is reality. The air we are breathing, the beating of our heart and the sweat of our hands, these sensations of the present are what we take for granted as if they were eternal but they are not. Our vital senses take on their true value only when we are about to lose them. Do not allow this to happen, whatever you are doing stop for a moment and completely forget about it, breathe deeply closing your eyes, listening to your beat, touching your hands but above all enjoying being alive with a sublime smile.

I look at your graceful figure and no fantasy is needed for me to follow the return to the origins, your morning toilet is of fine oyster cloth and you are an invitation to a mud bath, your blue eye stares at me through a milky keratome, with the stiff forefinger you push aside the yellow twigs of the weeping willow and you know well that you can expect all the worst things from me. Emotional flashes and a hundred and eight gold in the finish open the way to the sewer, to the sad weekend that I am now starting to live, the dress of which I dream is woven in the rice color of Siberian cellulose, the green hands of eight hundred girls are the foundation of a sweet confession, the isoipse of the rice solidify you with a courtesy mask and the ratchets of your porcelain ears are perfectly hidden in the listening bush of your oxide macerated hair. The spheres of things and events triggered, against the course of the clock hands, run at zero time, however a single day spent with the beloved girl on a Norwegian glacier is the love bag of all worthy people.

Splinters of smashed dolls hurt my soul, the caterpillar crawling right next to my eye is bigger than the express train that passes in the distance. I don’t know which mountain farmer when he couldn’t find work years ago he started talking to a sheep. I see how my life is sucked into my mother’s life, I see how I am wound back from the umbilical cord to the womb of the progenitor Eve. I see how the stained underpants are the imprint of infinity and the intestines stirred by noble horror lead to a higher vision, I see my semen as against the current being sucked backwards to the first pollution like a mountain trout, I see how from the organ sexual intercourse of all my ancestors are sucked back into the spermatic canal of the progenitor Adam. I live tactfully the resection of the rib that I still miss today.

And in the meantime this is your little waist and this is your pleated skirt from the belt to the delicate crepe and this is your toilet of the silky ivory color and it is an empire model and this is the confirmation dress kept as a souvenir and this is your back dappled by beer coasters and these are your loose hair and staves of music flow from your head. I see how naked you are now sailing under the dark beams, I see your rhythmic hands illuminated by the violent spray of the yellow chandelier, I see how from your little beating legs gush springs, beads that rise from all the pores of your body, you are immersed in a bathroom phosphorescent and vibrating ankles whistling rapids of seltzer, sparkling wines, sparkling fins, mineral feathers, flying fish wings, the flys that the beautiful and young Greek god Mercury wears on his ankles. The full moon shines with the footprint of Armstrong’s sole, but I was most moved by the news of the evening newspaper, a 68-year-old medical herb picker dozed off on a flowering meadow and was sucked into a lawn mower and her corpse escaped from the car along with the medicinal herbs and hay beyond recognition.

Along the belt of the streets I return to the origin of going, the revealing splendor of animal experiences wishes pools full of children to thirsty cities. Your myosotide eye broken by a sliver of Modra majolica now understands my cold gaze, rightly follow how the knife of my imagination pushes back to the sources of things. The last stream is sucked into the small river with the last drop, the last river is sucked into the ocean sea with the last clear cloud evaporating in the blue skies. I see how you follow this ascending fall with me, I see that not a single phase of this striptease has escaped you. Apparently I follow the memory of your white silk dress embroidered with gold, on the wrist the sleeve was decorated with slits for my desire, two hollow folds of cream yellow cashmere, but I follow all the more quickly as the pure source and the divine Needle they go towards spring and you smile at me when you see how I take handfuls full of creative clay in my hands and smelling the earth I smell you too. Meanwhile I feel only in my brain the screeching of your sweet limbs, the skin you have adorned with tender cracks, you are transported by the coordinates of cigarette smoke, Climb high like the bubbles of seltzer, the trees and flowers describe circumferences, an apple falls from the melo, already with the apples in the seed, the last ruins of the evening slip silently into the soft dust, but in the meantime I like the excesses and extravagances of the songs with poetry in the newspapers.

Graceful comes in the wave of the evening a lonely throb of a star. Gradually a light cloud the pupil closes them smiling; and as she passes with veils and feathers, in the great blue tremulous sparks they are born in swarms, they are born in garlands, are born in a hundred, are born in a thousand: but I don’t see you anymore, my star. Liable illusion How many anxieties you neglect. I woke up. Beyond the intoxicating essence of your insidious substance Vast expanses of multicolored black poppies They linger mischievous Willing to stem severely every unwary dream. Cleverly designed they will refute the insolent lie to which you are prone Allocating your vain shy escape to an inevitable departure. We cannot evade An intimate truth. Along the way we meet as graceful souls. Sensitive fairies. You covet butterflies and you love days sitting together.

A LIE THAT IS EROS

You remind me of someone who
It never existed; the
Crazy dough, maybe it's in
That Lilith bed that I am
Misunderstandings were born: ha,
I have always known the truth
But lying to me does me less
Ache. I wish I could prove
That time is just an arrow;
What I see inside yours
Hands, sincerely: a
Fist of presumption and limits,
The ones I prefer not to know.
You know how dangerous it is
Give the signs more labels
Convenient: Call things with the
Their name, and from there you start again.
But, tell me why not even
In the answers it is possible
Find that kick that me
Stuns; I see myself, I am beyond
Myself, I would like to recognize myself.
I created I created
A roof a mirror
Conforming to fidelity, it is so opaque:
How long can I stay in this
Invisible shooting e
Survive my projections?
What I see in this balance on the world:
The garden let go.

Now I have only weight. I like,
But not always,
Being in control of things myself,
Know where to put your hands.
I touched you in that bed, and I have
Lied in not loving.
In the dark, with a little cold
Around: find myself in a
Bunch of mud, the gift that
Someone made me. I have it
Left to rot, but it always is
Dense. I'm in it.
What do I see inside the temptations:
A lie that is Eros
And engine of consciousness. I would like to
That becoming was simple
Becoming, and not a return on
Guilt. Nobody touches me. Support
The last glass on the carpet, in the
My test what you could
To be. "You have more things to tell yourself."
Yes, I would like to tell them all, but it is
More humane to enjoy the confusion:
Sometimes the suggestions arise on the
Street. I wish I was different
And yet they are just that: one
Consciousness that sees only the hand
Tapered, a new light, too many
Register for one story only.
What do I see inside your story: one
Mine who cannot leave.

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.

ALL IS DONE

Sometimes, you’re right, I’m afraid to bloom. I am afraid to bloom because I fear that once I have blossomed you will think that your mission is complete and you will abandon me to my splendor. And I don’t want to look gorgeous except in front of your eyes. I don’t want those hands to stop caressing me, those eyes stop looking at me, those lips stop kissing me. I want your attention that makes me feel the queen of all roses, it is a desire that makes my soul vibrate and shine. Please grandma, come back to me. I need your love. I’m lost. Please pray for me. Grandma, I need your love.

EMOTIONAL CHAOS

1. Never repress your emotions just because they make you feel guilty or think they are wrong. No emotion is wrong and if we feel it in us there is always a reason and the more we try to justify it rationally or avoid them we only do damage to ourselves because repression makes them come back to the surface and transform them into fears. Always be open to yourself, listen to yourself and always look inside yourself to understand if you are okay and don’t pretend yes when it is not so because you only hurt yourself and you will never be able to really know yourself. Love each other so much that you don’t feel guilty for trying certain things because we are human and we are not automatons. We are imperfect and it is so beautiful, we can make mistakes a lot of times and fix it anyway because there is no standard concept of perfection, it is only in our mind and often it will be for what we will feel wrong, but know that it is not so. It’s okay if you feel that way now and it’s okay to stop for a moment when you feel you are about to burst, try not to make it too late. Take your time and listen to yourself, do what you really want and leave everything else alone for a moment and you will see that your day will completely change.

I am not made for goodbye, for tight hugs, for thanks for everything, for promises made on the doorstep of the house or at the station, for gifts, given as a token, for languid looks. I’m not made for emotionally strong experiences. Better to do with me as you do with pets, which do not have the conception of the passage of time, better tell me: see you later, even if one will come back after months, or after a day or never come back.

It is in mornings like these, slow, full of thoughts, doubts and worries, while that light breeze blows, whipping the heat of the night just passed among a thousand torments, that you realize how much life for you has always been a whirlwind of disparate emotions, so many never have the time to elaborate them fully, dragging them along like a useless ballast. I will be too emotional, I will live too intensely what happens to me, I will also take too much to heart the problems of others putting them before mine, but I still firmly and despite everything believe that this is me, and I am fine with it. Of course, it would be good not to have gastritis nervosa, but that’s another story.

Sometimes being emotional is something totally negative for us. Think about when you love so much, that emotionality comes to cover everything, inducing us to think that your story has a continuity, that it can go on even if the person we love no longer reciprocates our feeling. On the contrary, it is something totally positive. When you feel like you’re dying for a kiss. When you take his hands and smile feeling your heart beat like never before. When you make love and feel a thousand emotions follow each other. When you get excited in front of a good book. When you get attached to a character, when you recognize yourself in it. As in everything there are positive and negative aspects, but what would we be without feelings?

I’m afraid of falling in love. To go back to feeling everything for someone who probably won’t feel anything for me. I’m afraid of taking risks, of putting my heart on the line once again. I’m afraid of turning these smiles into tears, I’m afraid of becoming attached to them and then being abandoned. I’m afraid of what I feel. Of that involuntary smile when I look at you, or of the most total confusion when I sink into your blue eyes. I’m afraid of falling in love again and at the same time I have a craving crowd. The desire that keeps me awake at night thinking of you, that desire to kiss you every smile and to be with you every second. I am afraid of when I am out and I look for you. I am afraid when I do everything to see you. I’m afraid when I look at you. I’m afraid, because I know I’m about to fall in love.

THE LADY’S PERVERTION

It was dark outside. I was getting changed to go out for dinner. I was almost in front of the window, because the mirror was between the two windows. Suddenly a red light out there grabs my attention. He is standing in the middle of the trees. I remain motionless. I know he is watching. He doesn’t want me to forget what happened, our years together, our perverse bond. He doesn’t want me to forget anything like he does. But he does it in a manic way. He keeps the memories of every second, every minute and every hour of his life in his inner filing cabinet. I rearrange my dress. I know he wants to see me shaken but I have to act like he’s not there. His love was not. It was control. I had the power but he wanted to control me from below. He now wants to see if I live happy. But he knows that I cannot be happy neither with him nor without him. The razor’s edge of our story was metal and dangerous. But he couldn’t imagine that I was really different from the others. What was dark in me he hadn’t seen well. This had been his failure. A Dark Lady is not that easy to spot and he hadn’t been able to grasp the details. When he realized he had lost the future with me it was already too late, I had decided his destiny and I had closed my heart forever. I was there, in my house, ate, went out, smiled and lived. He was there in the dark, without money and without a life. He was trying to still exist, to exist for me. Instead I existed for myself and I had broken his game. I had discovered his bluff. He no longer ate, no longer had a home, no longer had friends. He only had me. He lived only for me. Every night he stood there in that darkness that had created between us. And he saw me living without him. Sometimes I left the window closed. Sometimes I opened the curtains. I knew that his only life was there in my daily nothingness. His goal had always been to destroy me inside. Destroy my vital spark. But he couldn’t know about my destroying Demon. His was a fiction. But mine was real. By the time he realized the power of my mind, everything had already vanished from his hands.