Most Of The Time

Most of the time
you don’t hear the
ticking of the clock.

Most of the time
there is blindness
in your mind.

Most of the time
the nights are like
savages of the wild.

Most of the time
you quit to meditate
the good things.

Most of the time
the negative energy
dwells in your depth.

Most of the time
I flinch at the thought
of you in those ways.



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Drink The Water

Thirsty in the hour
of something that is in
the most chaos of countenance,

deprived from filling
oneself with the lovesong
of soul, lovesong of heart,

unknowingly imprisoned
in the cellar of the superstition,
in the cellar of the commitment to

ugly truth of suffering.
You open your mouth and drink
the water of compromise and regret.



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Massive fireworks high
and up in the sky.

Cheers of my incessant
youth here on the ground.

I am still essential
in my twenty-eight years

of writing what I am
supposed to write.

There were moments
of slack, there were

moments of heights,
I can’t disconnect.

And today I want to thank.
And today I want to celebrate.

I am still doing what I love.
I am still alive with my passion.



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The Tarnished Picturesque Of Me

Loaded is the mind.
Sunk underneath the
bottom of no desire.

No delight can revel
the disquiet and the

Hours went by unnoticed,
quickly changing the
seasons of sentiments.

The tarnished picturesque
of me is calculated unevenly,
imperfectly defined.



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are haunting me
since then

I am not scared
at you.

linger in my mind
and it is complicated.

don’t play this game,
and I can feel.

is just you crossing
my mind each day.

I love it, I love
it so dearly.



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Taming The Arguments

A flower in full bloom,
this April noon, a love and
soon you and I can be in the
same room where our names are
all around the walls, never be
taken away from the oblivion of
the history.

The destiny of infinity
and the cycle of giving and
receiving, the hate of forgetting
the bad, the ugly, the war within
and among the diversity of unique
images at the place of the common,
and we are one in the unity of taming
the arguments.



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Guilty We Are

That face we
have made on the
verge of this guilt,

aching in a
way we cannot
deceive, in a way

we express the
truth of what we
now feel.

And we cannot
deny it, we can
only be quiet

but inside we
feel that way, so
guilty we are.



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