It might have not been a lost
all of that years
all of that tears
it might have been passion
compassion more likely
Lips suspended, shouting
to the world, to your words
curled up into a soap bubble
so fragile in a dance of struggle
by a crowd furled
blazing and then, ashes
dirty of pain
your promises, humane
The past is for the strong one
oh, let it be, let it go
oh, forget, forgive
to repeat better the same mistake
you should had learned so much
Hands crossed, caresses
to the stars, to your scars
ripped up into nonsense poems
so strong between fresh rhymes
by a lover spelled
thrilling and then, music
shining of hope
your promises, humane.
YOU ARE READING
Red wine, black ink.
PoetryI write during the nights in which insomnia hits my soul. Poems steal my words and make sadness touchable.
