Profusion
A wealthy topography, wind gusts and ample water sources to skinny dip the hormones seeking for a refuge to propagate, under fair conditions.
And humans were seen, behind the scenes, shredding heart beats per minute gone, smothering fresh breaths roam, solely not to be dealing, soul fastening flights to Rome, castles family crackers coffee marketing backbones, we buy we’re high we’re dead at home.
Juat leave us alone, the children mentioned to their parents on the grave-stone.
Sorry, feeling sorry for this caviar stuck in my teeth, I cannot even brush, kiss, tweet my feet to get closer to you, meu Belo Horizonte, while money perfumed my senses to drift to horrors, crimes, reality shows and I’m waking the red carpet to hell, just not to step on sand, which isn’t fine enough, warm enough golden enough for my stature.
You’re left behind as this draft.
I’m throwing the garbage like scribbles notes and papers from yesterday’s bonfires of my ever increasing black hole to burn you too, without anyone knowing.
The psychopath within, has to die.
And gray morning clouds penetrated deep and painful enough for me to hold your hand and not let go this time, my teacher, my humbler.
I’m surrounded and surrendered by your empathy to contain me, as this mass fall gravity turn ancient rocks into smooth pebbles our kids collect on the shore of know where to go, longhand longview longwalks, longevity.
I promise these words are not a pile of trash, just recycling my past affair to treat you better.
The queen of this lustful moment to live deeper than deepest prior to an early death.
Drowning safely on your warm belly button.
I’m yours.
And still mine.
To breathe another day.
What a privilege.
A gray sky.
Gusts of fresh winds.
Some rain.
Some tea.
Some dogs licking faces desperately reminding you’re alive.
Now get out of your tomb.
And make history right the fucking now.
This is not a quicky.
We’re fucking for the long term.
Crown.
Ourselves.
For the essentials.
This is not a cliché.
This is the daily war of Oxford Circus.
To not lose the self while shopping for charcoal that exterminates the leftover of this strenuous soul romaing for pleasures and quick fix fucks don’t change the course of this wind.
Anyway, not sailing takes place.
Ground 0.
Reality check.
Stranded on the news.
Fixed on the distractions that feed the demons within to destroy everything that we’ve built.
Rocks, these rocks are everywhere.
Must be a material for my inner fortress.
I will carry sisyphus and the rest of the logs.
And raw in rough waters.
For a piece of sugarless cake.
You, my dear wilderness.
Are so gorgeous without the make up to impress, just lie close on my chest, dream on, it’s happening.
I didn’t stop believing.
I just stopped to die a few times before I deserved you.
Patiently waiting,
A flightless but not for long.
Black bird.
