Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

one last sprint


as the old year is about to end
and a new one is about to be born,
i’d like to reserve a minute
before my favorite moment of the yearly cycle
to reflect upon my life.

what a great year it was!
what a great thing it is
to be blessed
with good fortunes,
to have so many plates
on my table now:
i’m eating well and plenty.

so blessed, and not-so humbled:
i am fresh
and so spoiled now,
ready to start everything all over again.

however, although seeking
and getting
everything shiny, glossy and new is good,
after so many gained things,
i forgot how to celebrate loss.

thus, at this final moment,
right before popping the champagne bottles,
i’d like to praise all the things i lost
this year.

from the kilos i shed
to the coins i tossed in fountains,
from the earrings that disappeared
to the keys forgotten,
i believe i lost everything i had to lose.

it wasn’t always enjoyable,
but it was
what it had to be.

sometimes, i lost good things
and valuable time,
but it all served as lessons.

i suffered, but learned
from the loss
of valuable things,
but also am very grateful
for the excesses i threw away
and the not-so good people
that i left behind for good.

so, goodbye, bad memories!
adieu, long lost lovers,
disconnected feelings,
painful reminders,
toxic companions,
midnight anxieties,
incomplete projects.

failures and more failures,
dreadful thoughts –
see you never!

all that had to go,
is now gone.
i lost what i had to lose
and am now better,
am now ready
to gain what’s good again.

so, thank you,
for a great 2017.


happy new year, everyone!
see you in january.
practice good over evil, and keep up the AMAZING work.

all best,



have a vengeful little Christmas


(and a violent new year!)

it’s the end of the year,
so have some compassion.
think of jesus, or some other
merciful god,
and practice good over evil.

however, do it only to people who don’t know you
and that you don’t know,
who don’t expect it,
who have no sanity,
who have no roof over their heads.

everyone you DO know
is sitting their fats butts
on their comfortable, warm couches,
sipping expensive wine,
eating finely aged cheese,
talking shit about other people.

these so called “good people”
will skin you alive
and don’t need a single
thought on your head,
nor a moment of your mercy.

those “family values” motherfuckers
are all snakes,
and are never concerned about your well-being,
your mental health,
or even if you even live or die…

thus, all those “friendly” fakes
and phonies
is to have their teeth
kicked in.



there are always rituals.

and night rituals,
and daily dances;

you brush your teeth
at 22:45,
right after you shower,
right before bed,
i see you through the foggy mirror
as I walk to the kitchen
to get a glass of water
that’ll wake me up
a bit before dawn.

these scenes
bore me out of my mind
and others,
they save me
from drowning
in this ocean of silence,
in this universe
of anxiety
that’s contained
and crammed
my skull.

in the end,
i’m glad
that we’re here.

on my notebook


fleeting moments,
a fleeting thing.

i realize
you never left me
a single note
written by hand.

i don’t know
how your cursive looks,
i can’t even imagine
how it is displayed on paper.

not even on my birthday…
i didn’t get a card.
i got a smile
with watery eyes,
but not a little piece of paper i can cherish,
and keep in a box of beloved memories.

in fact
i think i have never
you physically write anything.

and that’s sad
really freaking sad,
because words
are my thing,
are the memories i can keep,
are the scribbles
i’d like
to safeguard forever,
maybe even tattoo on my skin.



our love lasted
for two hundred
and forty five
text messages,
traded pictures,
endless pining
on dark nights
and thirty-nine
undercover kisses.

long distance


you just keep saying
“as soon as I’m back,
I’ll come and see you”,
but what’s the good
in visiting
if you are never staying?

how long must a lover
make a bed
if no one’s ever laying in it?

how long must a lover
live alone;
always a one,
never a two?

tell me: how is it good
to live a fairy tale
of messages on your timeline,
and never – ever –
hold you in my arms
nor call you mine?



after a long period
of tranquil nights
i dreamed of you again.

i dreamed i kissed
the column of your neck,
and later,
your supple lips.

i didn’t wake up startled,
nor shaking;
not even angry.

i just rose from the bed
and started the coffee maker.
then i got dressed,
got on the bus to work etc.

however, throughout
the day
i couldn’t shake off
one single thing:
a phantom feeling
of your hand
holding mine.

(did you dream of me?
did you feel it too?)

weight in gold


i am sorry if it seems
like i never listen
or start conversations,
or if you feel my gifts
are consolations
for my absence.

i am bad at saying
what I mean;
baring my soul
and revealing my words
was never really my thing.

it’s all family heritage,
as are the rings
that adorn your fingers.
(as are the silent gestures
that you can’t seem to hear.)

i’ll cover your collarbones
in necklaces though,
as if you are goddess –
i’ll stud them with stones
for every word i keep in,
i promise.

i am sorry if i am a show-er
not a say-er.

you want love notes
and adoring quotes,
but i’ll give you platinum
until you look like an actress.

for i can’t help it
if i like how the silver
shines against your skin:

the image is akin
to the sliver
of light that enters our bedroom

when the night is quiet
and the air feels right,
in the rite of silence
that blesses our affair.

how soon is now?


to me,
the future
is in equal measurements
and far away.

others tell me
I’m too young
to be wise
but also too old
to be naive.

I don’t know how old
“perfect” will be, though.

all I know is
that I’m scared
of what I can
and should do,
but also afraid
that what I’ve already done
is not enough.

I have anxiety
that I am not living
to my fullest,
afraid of wasting potential,
yet highly unmotivated
to start new things.

being an adult
is not easy.
no one told me it would be,
but still…

I’m struggling.

it’s bittersweet,

I dreamed of being an artist,
a poet,
an unsigned hype,
had dreams
of achieving a great legacy.

I worked for that,
got me a ton of jobs,
roles and loans
to live the life
I wanted to live.

but now, I am stalled,
that my adult responsibilities
are slowly
killing my dreams.

it’s a cycle,
a push and pull,
where I embrace things full force
and repel them
at the same speed.

what’s here today,
is actually gone tomorrow,
I’m too afraid to really commit
to projects,
to people,
because why invest
time and love in things
that may never flourish
into something big?

I conceal my fleeing
under the premise
that “this is my style,
I’m a free spirit”,
but truth is I am scared
of being dumped, mediocre
and left alone.

I am addicted
to constant validation
and instant gratification
that’s never enough.
I am constantly tired,
and often on drugs:
new ways to escape
old things.

I navigate a fine line
between being neurotic
and grade-a
legal narcotics,
being bad
and being good,
full of excuses.

all I wanted was someone to tell me
how the future will come.

I wanted someone to tell me
how they made it:
how they enjoyed the small victories,
savored the moment
and didn’t get crushed
under the weight
of bills, family, friends…. things!

I feel like everything’s amazing
and yet, everyone’s unhappy
(me included).

i wanted happy people to tell me
how they got to be
really creative,
and not pressured to produce
this day and age’s masterpiece.

all I wanted was someone
to help me bridge
this no man’s land
between my hands
and where they reach.

old ways


i was ready
not only to spill the beans
but to spew out bees,
or spoken bullets:

to all my enemies,
flower wreaths
for their early funerals.

I was angry at the world
(and at myself).
a mean thing I became;
a name
not to be called,
a friend
not to be trusted,
a cornered
feral animal
baring my teeth.

i bit the hand that fed me.
i also spit
on the plate i ate from while
i was at it.

but the words
i spoke
carried no truth
behind them.

(they were just heavy on my heart)

it was an ugly facade,
and just this:
a mask
to protect myself
from more pain.

i pricked
others’ skins
so no spear
could prick me:

built an armor
of thorns
to close guard
my heart,
my weary soul
so no foe
(and no friend, unfortunately)
could come near.