M Jak Milosc Magawideo

Grief

nights where poetry could not,

Where the hands and mind were like an empty stomach.

helplessly spoke of things that I never gave

But others interpreted only loneliness.

I was a bad child and arrived a day where I could not return to mourn.

clear in hotel rooms felt orphaned

And a silence that could not create poems

I tore the purpose of my flight.

mists Weaver

Each distance the average with the weight of my resentment.

Each landscape remained in my memory

With remorse.

never perceived beauty deeper

That the landscapes of my melancholy among strangers.

There evenings where I remember musing

In a forest of guava,

face a large lake of legends and a buffalo attentive.

afternoon where I was witnessing my isolation

and a wet forest infinitely

fugitive insisted on knowing I am innocent of sin.

messages

smoke launcher

I spent whole nights traveling to the depths of the fatigue.

Nights, where only the stars and the reeds

received my bottle of shipwreck;

greased fingers weary nights to scream.

As a snail I took my house on his back

And in each place a hunch sullen

urged me to go with the air of one who knows far.

Something I searched the freedom

Until my hands wrote asceticism. Something

pounded on the floor

to fall asleep.

Something felt regret on my face dirty and

in the ashes, which survived the fires useless

That lit next to the roads and hiding places,

found oblivion.

An orphan stirred sometimes logs

And sorry I missed the rest of my ruins.

Days arrived with rivers, chasms, with strong winds

And sometimes it rains rainbow or moving

But never with joy.

met the sea, snow, clay,

The ground floor of an Indian house,

The smell of asphalt in the morning,

Dew shivering in my eyelids

And the same fog seeking refuge in my hands.

sunrises met plagued with shame,

Flavored

bum and smell of sadness and disturbed sleep.

All my senses ready the lookout for a hug that did not quite

enruidando

And my mouth silences in my hands contained by force,

As if there were no choice but to shut the burden of defeat Tangled in

knots in a hammock sleepwalker

red eyes were blinded did not know growl.

Sometimes something of me left and got into the memories.

knew the color of a shotgun heavy throwing his thunder between night

And especially the pain of absence that is tattooed on my dark circles.

Something canceled in those ravings

Some crazy and saw other walkers.

A withdrawal, a cage that takes her out,

That had in my eyes.

A face lost looking for their name in astonishment.

felt bats fluttering at the edge of my exhaustion

And the insistence of my hunches

Celándome distress.

nights where everything was favorable poetically:

Solitude, silence, my freedom

and despair.

sleepless nights,

Fair for suffering,

Where every verse was like a morsel of food

What a god hidden in the corners

I threw compassionate.

Some wrote to understand Other

not to forget the sorrow.

I could talk about a dripping silence screams in solitude:

wrote to stay alive and support.

My search has a name cracked

Distressed by a talent that did not find the door.

where poetry nights

could not.

nights sleeping negritos

On the edge of a dream. Bilis

revolt Harijan days spoiled.

Thoughts insisting until the nuisance

As a barking dog at dawn

Or the chirping of a cicada in the heatwave.

nights where poetry could not.