The fall

Your face has

Two years

Of sorrow;

Solitude cheeks,

Rubberized Eyes,

Deep down the aisle,


Stone Cold eyelids,

Empty banks of joy,

You know the place

Where the itch started,

My, my, my,

Soft flesh, like white bedsheets in a white room on a bright day,

You are a straight razor,

Eight broken hearts in four months,

My, my, my,

The burden is heavy

For those weak shoulders

Old clothes to cover up

The old joints

Of a new body.

You are a clam,

Something that hits



You make them feel;




Buried under something else.

You can’t sleep

Because you don’t have dreams

Of unknown roads and creamy sunsets,

There is a drill getting closer to your heart,

There is a wasteland in your head

Where a million tires burn and a dozen of

Kids Scavenge the last summer,

It’s a bitter Autumn

Without curtains.

My, my, my,

A drawer has more spirit than you,

But no more silence,

The dead have something to say,

You don’t.

Seven years



Through the thick

Fog of myself,

I have found a light,

A firefly,

A lighthouse staring at me,

Mighty cyclops,

Take me home,

I am too tired and weary

I am just waiting for



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