questions don’t lack they stack and bend and
multiply to ten, they scare and dare to stare
and anguish, this time, won’t embed in reckless
poetry grind, nor blow up in whisky breathless mind
anguish of empty sea-time shell, time going by,
leaving me without sea, leaving me without time
I’d rather be words slave then prisoner of dry
endless desert as death I crave. Thus mirage of art comes bursting like
waterfall, let it come, let it come to haze
writing is freeing and denying, creating and
destructing, while I lay down on my fears, while I scratch my darkest wounds
and take pleasure out of my impossibilities
I imagine joyfully what I pretend not to be or
fatally exhort to be, populating my universe of flying fizzling fantasy
escaping my solitude, opening a door, reaching for
a window, jumping out courageously on the other side, to encounter, much better
and bitter
Solitude.
and there I am, terrified and sored, asking to
myself while facing this flashing and confronting sign, whose solitude that is,
if it’s not yours, nor mine?