Chapter I

A matter of choice.

I choose now, to give priority to the poetry

To split out the song

That is choking in my throat

That is is ripping out the fibers of my soul

I choose to waste my time,

To lose the productivity of slavery

I chose to go beyond the deep darkness
That bring success,
And supposedly,
Flowers.

I want those words to break trough

I want to turn back and regret
Not having done it yet
I want to yell my anger on my abstinence
Of being abstinent
I want to regret
letting the caged butterflies, to fly
Those butterflies shouldn’t be free
They should inhabit here
In the deepest depths of me.

And this is the eternal song of freedom
The preciseness and unbalanced celebration of my time

The time that I breath,
That should freely penetrate in my desire
But that I should drive and hold

I want to turn boredom in freedom

make a melody out of a stack of quotidian

I want to return to the passion in that bed of dead roses

stick to the odd plain sensations of “full feeling.”

I want to grow bigger and stronger than this pale shelter

To shoot and to shout the weariness that can bring death

I want those words to break through
To destroy the curtains of my sanity
To join a big melody, that I could never sing

And them, when the storm is over

Then, abruptly, every single word of despair
Every single inconsequential product of my wonders
Will calmly return,
To the cage,
After tasting the freshness of the wind
And comfort
And reform
And rejoin
And be.

Chapter II

I don’t know anymore.
I don’t know how to get reprieve.
I just don’t want anymore.
Look to people’s face, and the magic transparency in their eyes
No longer reveals who they are, neither does their hearts.
I just wonder inside of me
Looking for those who got lost into my soul
For the odd ruins of dignity
That each and every one has left
And I can’t find anymore.

I can’t find the essence and the scent that used to maintain
My vain and selfish attraction to life
I listen to the silence around me
Literally making me deaf
And it does not even say a thing
It breaks me from inside out
It takes me out of the comfortable melody of sleeping
But it does not even answer me
It keeps shouting this rebel noise
not even saying a thing
I just don’t hear anymore.
I just don’t rhyme anymore.
The silence doesn’t help me
Neither does the colors.

I try to
precipitate my thoughts
but they stay in this insanity cloud
of ignorance and guilt.

It is my fault, indeed.
It is our fault. Mine and yours.
You that left your moral remaining inside of me
You that threw the lies that not even you could digest
You that taught me not to sing
You that I like to name “the silence”

And now, I just lay down in this harsh and dolorous bed of mine
In this nest of confusion
Inconstancy
And every thing that lacks

You that once looked into my eyes and made me see the transparency
But you that now hide against the dimness you fancy
that packed me out in my cradle of lies
You that woke me up.

Here I lay,
Here I lie.
But you, that reduces all of my toxic questions and organic confusions
You that make my useless pack of crooked crisis fits into a song
You that makes me understand that I am more than out of tune into this song
But you that makes me see that if I never sing it
I’ll never live.

I am with you
And whether you are with me, I do not know
You started playing this melody of my existence
You got to finish it.
You got to blew me out of your warm mouth and let me go
Let me be,

But before, let me go back to sleep.
Don’t wake me up,
never again.

Unless, and… Maybe,
Maybe We’ll find it out
maybe the waves of our melodies will be a clear part of our paths
and maybe this whole baloney will even make sense
we’ll stop smoking our time, and watching our death arrive
We’ll stop thinking we have to walk until the end of the line.
As the poems did before.
As the poems take us away from the regularity
Of the meaningless intention of distinguishing
The useless reasoning of labeling
Maybe we will realize we do not need to know
we will hold hands and celebrate the lack of answers
We’ll celebrate this deafening silence I mentioned before

Maybe this will ever make sense
And this crying will be the cloud that never rains
The tear that never drops
And the everlasting song
that fits all the senselessness of the world
When we are awake.

At least we know that,
And there is no poem between us

There is a bridge.

Chapter III

I woke up again
But distinctively slower and more conscious this time
I broke on the peak of a dream
When I realized those scents were too sweet to be real
That contentment were part of a selfish euphoria
Specially projected to keep us asleep.

And that the work is an actual dystophia

Now, the silence isn’t so deep as in the first arousal
The dread isn’t as insane
The self consciousness is calmer
The sadness is just another fiber of Those
The ones that keep us alive.

Now, the delirium is behind
so as the elation, was so delight
A sinful part of a shameful deviation
A doubtful faint of illusions
A pack of truths we ignore
For the sake of keeping alive

As I keep writing the same words,
As I keep recognizing my lack of power
The lack of precision in my assumptions
I keep in poem, and poetry is the shelter
That guards me, when I’m awake

I no longer see the sun,

The sun also decided to fall,
And probably to wake up in some dimension
With less filth, less confusion and nuisance

More fear
And more fear of my fewer options
Now, I write to the quieter and observant souls and minds
Those who can shepherd their intentions
and be regretful about their sinful dreams
Those who can gently wake up by themselves
After the abrupt effect end of the poison they give us
And we give us every day

Heroes become slaves,
Stars turn into dust
And the dream of manhood
Become an undesired fetus

For that manhood rejects to wake up
rejects to reveal
rejects to stand.

Written by Yasmim Franceschi
Edited by Sofia Arthurs-Schoppe

 

 

 

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