get rid of boredom, of those people talking noise; out of tune in that rhythm, world of unworthy rich people. 

A lifetime in stealth, I'm afraid I'm losing the thread I am not clear about what I aspire to, before it was peace and free will. 

I am used to seeing in low angle, I have carried your sorrows and it has been in vain, I usually act tied to my past: longing for changes in this steppe landscape.

my path is lost in the soul of the mist. my sadness is dipping the memories in the source of the idea.

Tired of what my head machines, I have returned to bad routines. It keeps me alive wasting ink. 

I don't want to be an icon, a reference, in this convenient circus. I live in a depressing loop, I happen to be inert, dependent. 

I'm an accumulation of defeats, multiple deficiencies. Demanding verses emerge from my mind, skilled interpreters of a disordered conscience. I sold my memories returned by express mail.

my path is lost in the soul of the mist. my sadness is dipping the memories in the source of the idea.

Advancing by inertia, wandering from chimeras, I don't know what suits me for sure, my little patience plays it.  

looks that reflect pain, victims of a system of oppression. innocent minds are absent, we are slaves of the banknote dictatorship.

I distill agony and I find it difficult; in the spotlight and empty-handed.

if death is death, what will become of poets and sleeping things that no one remembers?