Cutting bread in pieces I don’t understand and don’t want to eat.
Why have internal shores prepared such a wide opened windy bed to suffocate me over the cliffs?
I’ve been here since the stones forgot its colors.
Laying down this tired back over a shy swimming will for dead leafs on the air.
Breath pass over the dark furniture searching for a tool. …and any organic matter.
The taste of absence lands on my closed lips and chin.
Metric system of silence has taken flesh for granted.
All the acts of past vanished with dust. My arm is by its own.
Do you know when all your muscles are ready to to jump on his/her neck, bite it and transform it in a hamburger killing it in less than one second even before to fall on the floor?
But you don’t feel like to do it anymore and you don’t even know if the target still exists so you sit on the couch in dark and try to forgive feelings of facts you don’t even remember anymore?
Eyes trapped by the weight of doubt.
Eyes opened to what is for sure and isn’t present.
…the waiting of a gap that isn’t to come. Or is.
Why have internal shores prepared such a wide opened windy bed to suffocate me over the cliffs?
I’ve been here since the stones forgot its colors.
Laying down this tired back over a shy swimming will for dead leafs on the air.
Breath pass over the dark furniture searching for a tool. …and any organic matter.
The taste of absence lands on my closed lips and chin.
Metric system of silence has taken flesh for granted.
All the acts of past vanished with dust. My arm is by its own.
Do you know when all your muscles are ready to to jump on his/her neck, bite it and transform it in a hamburger killing it in less than one second even before to fall on the floor?
But you don’t feel like to do it anymore and you don’t even know if the target still exists so you sit on the couch in dark and try to forgive feelings of facts you don’t even remember anymore?
Eyes trapped by the weight of doubt.
Eyes opened to what is for sure and isn’t present.
…the waiting of a gap that isn’t to come. Or is.
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by Caio Fern
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Sincerely I wasn’t in the mood to write anything, but I saw a post, sure, on an art blog, tumblr, saying basically that you don’t have the right to write a poem only because you aren’t a doomed slave of its craft.
So I did.
Shut up all the people that are so insecure about your talent that instead of trying to improve itself, try to undermine other people’s efforts and expressions creating new kinds of prejudice and making other untalented fools believe on this.
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by the way, I am getting tired to write in English, it was fun before because was a challenge, and still challenges me… but now it is just…. limited.
