Oct 29 · 2 min read

Darkness falls on my thoughts, a web of glue on a handful of flies
You can’t run away from there. You’d really like to point your finger at someone, screaming to the world that it’s not your fault.
But you can’t, and you know it.
Time passes, you realize it while you collect the dry brushwood you cut a year ago, so fresh.
Time passes, water flows, it rains.
To you, oh cursed poet.

Because you know, you’re building it just to destroy it. Your future.
You’re just waiting for the right moment. When you’ll become successful, when you’ll have everything you ever wanted. You’ll simply start over.
Like your beautiful wall, it’s there just to be swept away.
You would like to scream to the world. But you can’t.
You live in torment, you can’t evens see your own , covered by the patches of your life.
To you, artist of the self-destruction.

You block doors and windows, you allow yourself to fall in the darkness.
You drown in your own words.
You wake up just to face the world, you live to die.
The times you let yourself be carried away, the times that it ends badly.
You are numb, you gasp and you’d like a hand to pick you up from the darkness. You would never admit it, but you are the one who is not afraid of being torn to pieces.

Because you know, you’re just training. For the final battle.
The one without walls, the one without your fucking masks.
Meanwhile the glue descends, covering that tornado of photographs and memories. It ends there.
To you, some verses among the many that I could choose. Because I’m just this, I’m an impostor.

I stole something from you, I stole something from everybody I met.

I always steal something. Because I have nothing on my own.


Written by


Male, 24, Italy. Freelance comic book artist and illustrator. Unapologetic troublemaker. Extreme coffee evangelist. Superhero.

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