The poet turned on the computer, right after a cigarette.
Sad, pencils and pens dusts in their special niches of cardboard, curious objects known as "pen".
Fear fills me, and I remember Battisti
"How can a rock,
stem the sea ..."
Muto the phone, empty your mail, mail and real
mute poet, noise in the belly of him.
no more news from you, but my life
comments and criticisms, perhaps
stove, or angry, impatient and in the alternation of
probable disappointment.
smug, Moire
on the throne of the ominous developments followed the fate of his ego,
triumph, was what he felt.
A thud, felt the poet
unarmed, stood the body's heart to fail
Why everything around me is silent, because not a word
also one that is a trap ...
Poor Hamlet
no stage
deaf to the bells of the risk, timpani
closed by the smell of death.
And death laughing, playing Bounce
with feelings, fears ...
with those feelings generates fear ... the fear
comparison
dissolves like ... well, that is a metaphor for the other, but the
sense ...
Screw waiting on tracks ghost
lives looking trains slow to act,
stations that do not want anyone to see faces
... And no one to turn to for information ...
And all around me is silent,
excruciating painful silence
more bloody wounds,
could understand, you know ...
Walls, increased by a high ...
imagined because without hope, pride and understanding
,
sweaty and exhausted, perhaps, in
endless chess and arm wrestling ...
committed by Amare die, die for love
,
not live to love, live love
creating
maybe ... The dawn of another, yet another new day waiting
usual sly,
sure that there would again
repeated expectation, perhaps
suffering, hope ...
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