It's the sweet night of New Year's Eve and I haven't picked any flowers to put to catch the dew, broom, poppies,
artemisia
I promised myself,
and I didn't make it
I haven't been able to come to you at the silent stone today as I wanted,
I haven't cooked for your birthday in days,
I haven't bought sweets and flowers already in anticipation
I did not do as you would have done
and every time I feel the difference in action
I suffer a little and despair and feel the gap even more unfilled but then suddenly after like a push on the back like a bird,
I remember that I am me,
that you are you.
and I look in myself for what makes me who I am, the firefly inside that lights up and spreads light.
and the giant thing is that that same push does not come from me,
it comes from the possible present of you,
what would you say what would you think if you were thinking of me,
who inhabits me, and not that it is thought,
subject, not object.
I'm double then
I'm a cat chasing its tail
then he finds it
and makes us a bow goes around at night on the hot roof
meow at the moon
give thanks for another year of suffering
and goes to dream of the morning dew.
You yearn for freedom and independence in a world that is already a prison in itself, these wings trapped under the shoulder blades, under the burning skin, we are those of the sunrises and sunsets, those who stay awake at night, who are lost during the day, we are children of freedom, those who “wow if it’s dangerous, or frightening, I only feel alive if my heart is in my mouth” Those a bit like that, who caress you a second and a second later want their own spaces, those considered crazy, the ones that “you are crazy who don’t know what it means to jump and get hurt, get up and try again”. Unfortunately, even those who, if they feel too attached to something or someone, leave. Those who are a bit disappointed when someone gives us delusional ones, those who leave without specific plans, who live a little for the day, who create adventures because it is so beautiful, who are enchanted in front of storms and rain, who a little and also inside us, but it doesn’t matter, we are happy only if free, safe only if a little crazy. Stripped from the wind. We are all in the fear of the future. We don’t eat. We don’t sleep. We are not hungry for roads. We don’t travel anymore inside the Moon.
Feeling that sense of getting lost in the middle of the music, the only one
Without thinking that an audience judges
Get out of the sheet that sweats to go back into the dispersed intercourse
Over time that changes in beating a burning iron
With blood that spits and kills whoever helps, then scrutinizes
I move each strand of my puppet with subtle movements
But mine is a puppet who knows who is driving him, it is he who cuts his strings
It is the statue that is erected by enthusiasm and left to that guano he wears
A standing run, a cross on the ground
A vice, a hug, a patch, a tear, a violent silence
A voice, a mouth, a threshold, a light
A moon, a desire, a shape, a need, a woman, a pride, a retort, a sunset
A beach, a fate that I write, a fate that I live
A road that starts from here.
Young princess
Child now grown up
You play being a wife
satisfied lady.
The rooms of your home
Polished dwelling-
They might satisfy
Your thirst for tea
friends accommodated
For years to come,
For years.
Your wise husband
accomplished master
He does not feel the pains
Ignore the paleness.
Behind a door
Your pain is hidden
Locked in
Golden lock.
You were free in the woods,
with your bow and your knife,
true warrior,
and now only daughter-in-law.
In twelve months you look at the moon,
dreaming of that life in a sylvan abode,
you wait to be sure that the wind will come back
and take away your days.
The green-eyed girl watched the falling rain hit the window; the drops competed to finish first, it was like a competition and the first one that arrived disappeared into thin air.
A bit like life.
Life is a constant race of speed, only those who keep running find their way while the others get lost halfway and in order not to waste time they take another one that leads them to unhappiness.
Then there are those like the girl with the emerald eyes who from the beginning do not know which way to take and remain at the starting point waiting for someone to pick them up and take them on the right path.
But that someone will never come.
Her eyes slaughtered by the night.
She who in her eyes had the routes to the moon.
She who was cold inside, the cold that freezes your veins.
She who no longer believed in love, she didn't want a guardian angel.
Those eyes have seen too many things for the few years he has.
Her eyes always on the edge of the precipice.
Always ready for the explosion.
They say that crying is good, good for the soul
But when your soul is too tormented where nothing makes sense they are just wasted tears.
Like, have you ever confused the dream with reality?
Have you ever been high?
Did you believe that your train was moving while it was stopped?
Maybe I was just a little girl and that's it.
Heart night. Heart moon. Mystery illuminated by the dream. The thought tears. Every morning it opens one day. It hurts to wake up. Having to live in human sleep. A bright and perky twin. While you are still sleeping. An efficient and hardworking twin while you laze in the sheets. A slab of hearts. Crushed. I went in from the back. Walking on the carpets with holes in them. The rooster crowed. The rain was coming. Candles dropped from my eyes and the light touched my green irises, coloring the meadows of your feeling. I have chosen not to participate in the life cycle but to remain in nature. From your doors to my doors a hanging wire grows, almost a vine. Profane. A darkly severed scene cut by a skeptical director. That you want a happy ending is obvious but my end is always cynical. Heart night. Heart moon. Mystery illuminated by the dream. The thought tears. Every morning it opens one day. It hurts to wake up. Having to live in human sleep. A bright and perky twin. While you are still sleeping. An efficient and hardworking twin while you laze in the sheets. A slab of hearts. Crushed.
I love myself as I am. With strengths and weaknesses. Black days and rainbows. Paranoia and insecurities. Crooked moons and bipolarity. Logorrheic and despotic. Break boxes and always on his. But above all, always myself.She was no ordinary woman, one with a nice pair of legs, a nice breast, a nice butt or a particular face, I don’t even know if she was really aesthetically beautiful. She had the wrinkles of her years, of her experiences, an angular character, she was complex, almost shy, twisted … Yet she was so beautiful in her doing, in her love, in her infinite being. In everything he did you found hidden all his charm, he had on him the wild scent of freedom, dreams, concreteness, passion. She was not perfect, on the contrary she was moody, at times unpleasant and yet, in every defect, in every excess there was the essence of her being “perfect” because “bastardly sincere”. No, she was definitely not an ordinary woman, her heart extended towards infinity, infinite as the sea is, as the universe is and as deep as the ocean. Yes, he had all the wrinkles of his years, that stubborn, almost unshakable character, he didn’t mince words, often beaten down but never defeated. It was enough for itself, it made sure it was enough. Life had “given” her a lot of tears, but she went on finding a way to dry them by herself. Yes, she was a woman, complicated … a tangle of woman. Call her beautiful? Yes, beautiful, complex and mysterious She had to be stripped from the inside, taken and dragged without asking too many questions, because too many questions would not be answered in words. She had a head, heart and soul and she wasn’t a nice pair of legs, a nice breast. Although she was “nothing special” … she was extraordinary with those who entered her heart and put her heart, strength and passion into everything she did.I have a difficult character. Too proud, perhaps too moody. I hardly feel anything and if someone goes away I go away too without asking for explanations. I could not bear the idea of submitting myself or depending on someone, first of all there is me. I’ve lost so many people and I’ve earned a reputation for being heartless, but I feel my heart … at night when I’m alone and it’s the saddest sound I’ve ever heard. But I hide it. I hide my emptiness, my good side, my desire to love. I am myself only when I want and above all with whom I want!
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 