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Dreamer’s Confession

In the foggy morning I’m here, floating on my existence as I live another useless day.
I look in the mirror and I see a reflection only known to me.
I hear stories of allowed relationships, and for a moment I feel rage.
I feel a fire inside, listening to normal people’s problems.
And then she comes again and we will be silent for long hours, as the Pretenders air on the radio.
“When you’re standing at the crossroads and don’t know which path to choose”
and this music sends a shadow to the sky,
as I get on the train to dream the stars.
I observe the skies falling on shaking wishes, on fragile cracking streams of thoughts.
One week ago the goal was still there, there were still hope.
They want me to say that I love girls,
as a trumpet tweets from digital headphones.
Will something ever change? Will I ever take off?
Then I see the stories, the beautiful stories that I dream to tell,
I’d like to get remembered for a story, for my story,
to have had the strength to rise up. to reach up to the firmament.
Maybe I’m not made for this, I have to get stuck! NO! I don’t want this.
There must be something special ahead of me, there must be something better.
I can’t believe that all I can do is to be here seated writing things that nobody wants to read.
I will take a bow in front of my wishes. Don’t fade away.

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The Last Grip

A hug from a distance,
a warmness that lasts a minute,
the cold of winter surrounding our naked bodies.
You turn on the other side,
and I follow the strange presence of a body,
a warm human body next to mine.
Your kisses are full of heaven,
but inside I burn of emptiness,
while your smile was everything I wanted to see,
on that cold, dark night.
Just for one little time, just on that moment.
And I promise you that I won’t try it anymore,
I won’t dream of me and you anymore,
I will just turn away from your story.
My destiny is far away,
the long-needed separation is behind the corner,
the challenge.
I’m starving of being good at something,
the accent I can’t understand,
the automatic response of my brain.
A future, from where I will be able to watch that single night,
smile at it, write to you,
and find that same old fragile tension.
The last hopes that hold me here,
thin ropes about to stretch and break,
letting me free to fly in the warmer air of the path,
all dreams funnel on iron wings,
in the sun, in the brilliance I can see under palm trees,
other people, other fears,
and in dreams, I’m sure I will still hold your warm hands,
my last rope,
my last invisible grip.

Last Glimpses

I wonder if I see another sunset,

another ceiling, another white unknown space,

another waiting, another hour in the bathtube thinking about my life.

What’s happening?

It feels like I’m losing too much.

The smile on his face, the love he’s lost,

the worth of every day, spent smiling instead of crying.

I’m trying to force myself to smile at the mirror as the clock ticks on,

and I turn back to watch the crowded square,

and time stands still, and there’s only hope in my heart.

A pause, a glimpse of light. Let it slow down please.

I remember that time in Madrid,

staring at the King’s Palace with sad eyes as I walked away.

That blue sky, that lonely but perfect morning, that walk under a clear sun.

Where are those dreams? Where are they hidden?

It seems like a lifetime ago, a future I was claiming to be mine,

a future I still don’t know.

Every morning seems like a repetition, a blueprint of something I’ve lived once.

And now, at the beginning of the descent, at the turning of the tide, in the eye of the storm,

I let myself go, and I lose myself watching the sun rise, hoping for the dreams to come back.

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