From afar, the fireworks were just colorful tree crowns, in the second they existed.
The leaves fell, extinguished in the night, and the tree died.
Fragile and fleeting as life.
The sound came afterwards, and I was the only one to listen.
Writer or not, we are here to tell a story and no other will be as complex, as beautiful, as unique as yours.
Use your feet as pen and watch out for the twists;
the world is your paper, so let the ink pour out from your mind.
I just needed to stop a few seconds and notice the Sun dying on my bedroom wall to realize the amazing concert I was missing all around me.
And I just needed to get lost to be part of the audience.
I was just here listening to the Sex Pistols and thinking how John Lydon is 58, and how the brit punk movement is long dead, and yet the queen still there, unaltered. And the funny part is realizing that “what it could have been” is always more powerful than what we have now. Always.
Come here I’ll give you a hug
and stab you in the back
to cry over your body
and laugh at your funeral.
I will regret this forever,
or until tomorrow
whichever comes first.
Unfinished lives #22
Times like these I feel like a star. Each word leaving my mouth in short waves stretches to heat those who might be around. I try to capture their orbits. I lose myself. The words consume my nucleus, degree by degree, and pass trough the clouds of dust, echoing hoarse cries for help. And isn’t it fun, the human nature? We explode in light to get a second of spectacle, just to see ourselves dissipate in an infinity of darkness.
Writing sometimes seems like a recipe that doesn’t impress you at first, and you don’t realize the fault is the lack of novelty after tasting the sauce thirteen times.
Disappointed, you keep it in the fridge, wait a week, and even reheated you find it the best sauce in the world.
I don’t know peace
and it’s the best
because almost everyday
in some strange way
I got this shouting
inside my chest