Do you remember me?

stopping by1Well, well
it seems i am back
about two years,
Dead
again, stumbling into words
because it should be   The touch but comes out The man

as if they were even
in weight and value

No, no
it depends of the hunger

Yes, yes
i am really back…

Dead diminish spaces

but not desire

 

 

I dropped….

poema-e-poesia1

because i’ve lost my glasses
and i  saw a tiny letters
a name … signed with a huge feeling
I feel myself strange
divided
that was you but but i was not expected for you
rude… am i?
blind, i am, be sure of that

stumbling into drinks and papers
it was not a time for surprises

surprise me when i am awake
when i can be polite as always
when i know that can be you
and, finally, when i find my glasses

The Thief of Souls, The Autumn Man

Happy in MaringaThey are in my poor notes. Words without nexus, written in several moments and in thousand notebooks that sometimes I find the motive to poetize.

Words like green and soul and phrases like: Lonely friends to a lonely friend ….That Makes me write.

I have no more inspiration! I need a single touche who drives me crazy where I can draw a poetic verse!

It was wasted!

I was wasted!

I do not even know if I hate the one who drained my restlessness and recklessness in being …

Being who I am!

Which, incidentally, is not at all interesting but only a relief.

I know that I spend days in solitude.

The face,  folded into books and  sheets and an tremendously  aversion to the common.

With  each passing day makes me to be more   alike a poet!

People escape me and I thank them in silence.

An eternal and grateful reverence for his absence.!

The ideas disappear inside a chest , full of memories and I grow in rage …. So much the  autumn man taken from me but on the other hand I was given so much that we are even. But the anger still grows.  Increases, foams inside the chalice.

A cold touch!

My biggest secret is to fear the thief of souls and he should never know!

It is perfect to fear who else looks like dry branches … And will  fall….

I do not see anything on him.

The convenient, the polite,  the polished movement of dry lips accompanied by  a empty  soul. And so imperfectly.  He touched my soul with her cold, icy hands. He marked me!
I have a mountain here. Immense and beautiful. I got lost there and found me there.

Cursed be you!

Let the green fills my soul, the airt to purify my blood and the cold to freeze me.

Ishould return by the  sun’s ray  and

touchs by   people,  with affection and that should bring me to  life.
I would like to dissemble!

The price would be too high!

I would like to  write happily things instead  you have to read the   defrosting process of a imprisoned soul .! A inner struggle for freedom and a  history. But, by chance, i  always have a good delivery to my soul! Always!

I survided!
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