Friday, 27 May 2011


Here I am, again

Pouring bitter ink on electronic pages,

Trying to extinguish this bulimia of love

Which is annihilating me.

I thought I was an adult, and I am a fetus.

A chrysalis.

Larva without cocoon,

I write to expel this rotten smell,

To feebly delay my delirium.

There are days I asphyxiate with myself,

With these inner parts

That want to escape

And I do not know how to help them.

I wish I could spit them out,

Dosing them.

I wish I could delicately savour my Ego to make it more acceptable, but I just vomit it with violence when I most need me.

Because yes, I have moments I need myself and instead of cuddling up as a grown fetus,

I expand myself,

Trying to find me somewhere else.

It is useless to say that it is impossible.

I would prefer to implode if I could.

If I could I would like to be jealous of my essence,

Instead of offering it to a world incapable of grasping the truth of things.

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