Don't wake us up when tomorrow arrives, we'd rather be dreamers

viernes, 2 de agosto de 2013


You're nineteen
and you have wasted all your life
immersed in petty issues,
unseasoned dreams
and wrapped in doubts

You've filled your mouth
and thoughts
with meaningful work
yet your fingertips
haven't kissed a book
in weeks
and your eyes
run dry,
as well as your brain,
with the slightest breeze of poetry

You have promised
not to tell lies
despite the fact
you don't own
a single truth
-And a heart tattooed
on your sleeve tastes like a lie

You have loved
whom you knew
with certainty
wouldn't love you back
in order
to not even try
-Infatuation is just as hollow
and shallow as you pretend not to be

You are as useless
as a funeral
(and equally as sad),
as the overexploited soil
(although this end was foreseen),
as a malnourished infant
(dessicated brain and future),
and alive
as a Dementor's soul
(in case you wonder, they don't have one)


You're nineteen
and you keep wasting your life
in self-hatred 
and hopelessness

They said I could triumph, but in reality I just vanish

I sometimes feel like
I could write down
the constellations of
an entire Universe,
but when my fingertips
touch the tool
(the keys, 
                                  the pencil,
            the pen)
they wither
as if poisoned 
and it rushes
through my veins
until it reaches my brain
and I realise I am
fucking dead.