Alternative glance
on a window that's closed.
I'm making amends
on a rotten newborn life.
Needles of poison
persuit me like bees
attracted like shit
to a cannibal feast.
Pragmatic attack
on a sinfull mind
that count the deads
as a religious ritual.
It's the destiny
wrapped in a blanket
with sharp teeths.
I think I'm alive
but dead is how I feel.
Cry out loud to
a deaf reality
filling a jar
with all my hability.
To forgive.
In forbiden lays
of imature acts
appreciating the
self destructive train
that makes way
to paradise.
obliged to be
cool in a world
of sad people.
Provided by
bits of fashion
that turn them
ridiculous,
as something greater
becomes a joke.
Clones clones clones
nothing but clones
of a sad existence.
Vasco Pompaelo*
