My Gravestone

I don’t need this impractical emotions for myself.

As the unavoidable society, in which I have to live,

doesn’t reflect my hopes, desires, goals, or wills.

There is an urgency to explore the aspects of reality.

But not those of making money, a career, another me.

Impotence is horrible, it carries with it a deep prick.

What a futile attempt, my talks cannot even reach you

like the exhausted news of starving children in Zutz.

Humanity dies in a war supervised by clueless generals,

a butterfly effect of any molecule that’s being consumed.

Is use and throw, unsatisfaction wants more and more.

Queens and Kings with no wise play are making fun of us.

The rise of the middle class out of the simplicity of lands,

a clever trap dressed in the elegant clothes of democracy.

What we have left is indifference, the eyes are just screens.

As long as your garden is green, don’t worry, you’ll be fine,

don’t care about the rest; build a self-centered dishumanity

that turns life into the most egoistic act ever made on Earth.

For those living in the painless apathy, there is a price to pay.

You will be slaves for eight hours a day, not living the present,

machines that work for the world’s wealth made by economy.

A story learned school in which you believe like if it was the Bible.

Your eyes don’t shine, that artificial soul is a very wealthy bank.

Unlucky, sensitive ones are aware that no religion will save them.

The only possibility to escape is to build a bubble out of reality.

The world seems almost acceptable inside of it, lucky experiences

makes it so nice that there are times in which the world is great.

But then the sides of the circle vanishes soon and the colors fade,

this modern society of ours calls it depression, I call it to be awake.

Still, I cannot change things with this vacuous unheard words.

What kind of difference can I do then, even if I see those things?

Brazil says to me that I never wanted to be part of every day life.

At some point I would have loved to have kids, get a companion,

please self-expression, charming breakfasts and walks in the woods.

A door I may open someday, a fine exit to this, but he is partially right.

In another society ruled by a fair system, with no such use of power,

I would have wanted to have a happy life living my Venus dream,

a listening, caring, unpossessed land of freedom for us and the rest.

Awareness is a poison I cannot be without, I won’t exist,

so I live paralyzed, watching at solutions with tied wrists.

The pyramid ruled by the head chiefs pushes me away

erasing the path to the triangle where change happens.

I am as obsolete as my ideas, readings, feelings, panacea.

There is no use in developing intelligent knowledge, fuck.

It's my own agony, this blind humankind that bleeds dry.

I talk with kindness, I scream with torment, nobody listens.

Don’t be deaf, be rulers of yourselves, take responsibility.

It seems like you prefer to be chosen rather of choosing.

You said, as others did, that I have an influence around me

on people’s dreams, behaviors, conducts, efforts, energy.

How can I become part of the engine and not fade away?

A society that allows this misery is mean, it shouldn’t exist.

No clue why we are all going crazy, we all want to expire.

I’d like to become destruction, breaking things, then disappear.

I’d throw an atomic bomb on it, a new chance to start all over it.

This book has been written too many times by the wrong hands,

you cannot erase things the cellulose is overused as aren’t brains.

Don’t you understand that is just a collective beam of our minds?

As I see the impossibility to build the magic future I dream of, I cry.

Strong and weak, I will thankfully end this nightmare I put me in.

I will sadly lose all my hope and I will stop breathing again finally.

The romantic strain is the only escape that allows my bubble to survive pain,

beautiful walls of lust, desire, friendship, respect, the only place I can fit in.

That's how I try to explain with ink the role that love has for me before death,

those are the priorities that rule my life into a pattern of desperation and joy.

You call it bipolarism, I believe this duality to be part of life itself, not a disease.

Poetry is a cemetery for my words, unable to reach the only place that counts.

5th of September 2017, Rome

I was. I am. I will.

There was a time in which I was not corrupted, pure.

I was silk shining in the mouth of green caterpillars

I was smooth as the soft sound of water that flows

I was embracing the world, filling all empty spaces

I was growing trying to reach the sky like mountains do

I was adding meaning to nature without destroying it

I was wind, caressing everyone's fears with kind thoughts

whispering love to all the errant spirits that felt lost

I was too a message of the beauty made by God.

There was a day in which I should have been a kid,

I was fragile but pretending to be old, strong, and bold,

I was playful as the waves of our Mediterranean Sea,

I was naive, waiting for a white horse that didn't exist.

I am a silence that brings with it feelings of guilt and shame.

The world is corrupted by a superficial material shallowness

A horizontal border drawn by the desires of disturbed minds

that want to possess and dominate everything that they see.

They think that they can own the soul of things by naming it.

With every decision they make, they give up to themselves.

They are made of chaos, seeking destruction, eating it all.

I will be quite, order, building calm with every sound I make,

I will be tied to the humble essence of things seeking truth.

58 caretta caretta turtles were born today in Livorno's coast.

I was born too 28 tears ago, 28 years ago, 28 times ago…

4th of September 2018, Bologna

Sleep Inertia

The sleepy self yells frightened

she comes to me from dreams,

keeps me safe away from Hell.

The heart pulses, runs too fast,

chases deers in the Black forest.

Petrified, I stare at death's colors.

Someone's breath is next to me

forces me to eat the lost emotions,

it is a violent, cruel thunderstorm.

Songs repeat compulsively inside.

One frog jumps out of the window,

words come and go the same way.

The hands of the night chokes me,

my breast is made of pretty thorns.

I will start a fire with this silence.

A light came to me, is knowledge.

Revelations fades with eyes open,

on the nightmare's land was clear.

Scientists agree it is clearly anxiety.

Shamans say spiritual awakening.

Magicians state is surely Baphomet.

It could be America's lack of humanity,

the European Union blind consumption,

or Korea's new nuclear H bomb, perhaps.

Nothing happens for real in this fake room,

reading books brings here dynamic worlds.

I'm sleepless in the culprit of my bourgeoisie.

3rd September 2017, Rome