Just another epic cycle!

It went blurry again...
while I was staring at it indifferently
After all it wasn't like some kind of bright light at the end of some dark tunnel to begin with...
it had always been there, as long as I can remember
sometimes scattered, the way tiny bits of dust are, floating in the air, when broken by sunlight...
but then it always looked sickeningly the same.
So I shifted many times, meaning to become solid, to hold on
and every time, there came an absolute stillness afterwards
looking ahead, it stopped with me, possibly waiting for me to catch up
possibly just desiring to fade away right there.
consequences of stillness, are just not so simple.
the useless being of anything that's ahead
sometimes blurry, sometimes not
it slowly made my eyelids heavy... it went dark under closed eyes, so much brighter!
Soon I had to open them, soon I had to start moving,
but I would be tired again,
and soon I wouldn't be able to justify my exhausted self.
whatever is ahead of me,
Is laughing at loud.

Undivided

The way you remember it, never actually happened.
the traces left behind, the emptiness you feel just looking back at it,
is not really there.
Shadow of a person you thought you saw once
so fragile and black, maybe carefully getting closer,
maybe touching the surface with cold fingers
maybe poking too far
for there was a sensation you never knew existed
maybe an old cliche!
for good or bad, it disappeared, gone... fucked.
so you touched your skin all over, searching urgently for the left marks of his fingers
the shadow's.
dried skin untouched
logic deceived
It never happened.
The shadow might have been a real shadow
a tree perhaps,
just standing there in the far distance
You've been denied by only a shadow of something unknown.
In a half lit world, weary and sore
frightened to see
the truth from fiction.

So it begins...

There,
between the slowly fading presences,
goes around, the very crippled sequence of events,
from which, one dies in the process of a fictional birth,
thrown out of existence...

what comes next is only an erroneous perception of a sweet, disturbed childhood
the scripted moments of revelations, illuminations, darkness...
from the delusion of traumas, staged breakdowns.
What comes out, are perfectly shaped bodies
prefacing, without recognizing the astonishment that
leaves behind.
and of course it is only thought to be heard
mumbled words, unconscious head
the birth effect carried out through
then forcefully learned behaviors started to kick in,
the pretentious curving ups on the corners of the lips,
for which talks were regarded by.

so they faded out, in complete consciousness
this time naked and blank, fairly real
this time out of wound.

Prologue

You've been so good to me, Queen of tragedies.
when there was only one closet to be hide in,
dizzy with the smell of soiled laundry.
and only one door that could be locked, in my entire universe,
hearing my own humming, echoing in the white space, between bathtub and the ceramic floor,
"So I can live on water alone for couple of days in here", I would think to myself childishly.
while you my Queen, were defending your forever lost youth, digging up dirt.
I could picture your every facial expression, moving around the room dramatically,
fragile and tired afterward, regaining your powers in the corner.
you owned the stage.
It never took a whole day for me to come out,
"Wait 30 minutes after hearing nothing but silence", I made that rule.
Wondering what to expect.
Once, you left me a burned doll, her clothes spotted with your cigarette,
that day my room was the chosen place.
I came out to watch you, I was drawn into it.
There I learned about self-pities, and rotten lucks.
Under layers of Dostoevsky's and Balzac's, there it was, a deformed superstition.
Full with fascination for my Queen, I refused to let her walk out,
for the price of thousand words and unworthy tears.

It wouldn't be long until the next Act.

From Dummies Collection

Life Delicioso

The end might be around the corner, but never close enough to stop him from missing, remembering, loving, and imagining constantly. His nostalgia so strong and almost permanent, he misses everyone. He remembers everyone... With every name that he calls, dead or alive, there is a tale... Once there was a childhood, an adulthood, genuine one in fact... Humane enough to be missed. His mind hasn't completely stopped recording, but new events aren't important anymore. Sometimes when I sit besides him, he asks me if my kids are doing good... I don't have kids, I tell him... then he gives me an embarrassed smile, or cracks a joke if he is in a good mood..., his jokes are witty.
He hates family reunions, he hates having to say goodbye one by one, it leaves him empty and sick... First time I saw him cry was in one of those damn reunions. Not too long ago. No! He was sobbing... He still sends imaginary money to relatives, to places that existed once, before an earthquake, a revolution, a war, or just an industrialization project. So I like to see him alot... as much as I can... he reminds me of how late I am, everytime, and how he has been waiting.... The only time I hear him complain. His life so full and so empty at the same time... Not for anybody to say that is time for him to stop... for his current existence is all he desires...then there will be nothing... Death is death... with nothing beyond it... Not necessarily scared, just not done yet.

Hipocresía Expreso

Disgust took over rage,
silence took over a lumpy throat,
paranoia took over the conscience,
Melancholy took over the World.

Consumed by absurdities,
loved by pities,
injected with obligations,
frightened by nostalgia.

Forced to cease,
drugged to persist,
promised to be deluded so impeccably.
While time exhausted the body,
and routines dulled the head.

Under layers of filth,
still remaines
an untouched state.