Just writing a poem

I will now write a poem.
The poem will be writing it.

Yes.

The End.

God is like those three Mizaru monkeys: blind, deaf and mute.

"society, you're a crazy breed, hope you're not angry but I disagree"

No nobility or character at all among humans
when they do everything for the wrong reasons:
charity, because they need to feel like they're doing something good;
loving and caring because they need what people give them;
putting children in the world just for their own selfish reasons;
apologizing (always insincerely) only because they need people;
and then they just do it all over again and perpetuate it in their prole
as the everlasting unsatisfied superficial people faking all the time
because they were breeded like that in society's culture.

A glance and a glimpse

What shall we stay for?

If bombs were sexbombs and guns were "tim gunns", the world would be a lot prettier and fashionable. 

Of all, among aches and sorrow and stumbles, disappointment caused by heartbreak is what ages one the most.

(A) Memory

I feel the touch of silk on a steel bar that I hold on to because I'm climbing up the stairs of the subway station and lately my knees have been quite hesitant to tread in the city life.

Everyone is rushing so stressed, like they're running from an unstoppable train...

Just moments ago, the memories paraded beyond my eyes in a kind of military march, station to station: the meeting point where I finally meet the one; the place where all dreams were supposed to come true and, nearby, the sad horrors houses; the place where all dreams are suffocated; the adventure of the unknown; the station that read "Love" on the subway's carriage window reflecting backwards the station's name and "we were so happy here"; once upon a time a kind of refuge and beautiful citywalks all the way down to the river.

Why does it hurt not having a person anymore?
It hurts because we were happy once.

I met you when you were blind

One day, below the blonde sky,
I thought I heard a lullaby coming from the sea
But as the sun started to peek behind the haze
I could clearly hear the children cry

One day, below the charred sky,
I thought I heard a plea coming from the trees
But as the light trespassed the surrounding forest
I could silently hear the birds who die

One day, below the sandy sky,
I thought I heard a blast coming from the desert
But as the blazing heat waves danced in sight
I could hardly hear the people fly

One day, below the red sky,
I thought I heard shots coming from the buildings
But as the flashes struck my weary eyes
I could vividly hear the soldiers lie

Are you still blind?

Art tries to cleanse the horrors of life from inside you. And all you've seen of so intensively gruesome and all that has been done to you, all the suffering you've endured at the hands of those cruel, egotistical, manipulative and vile persons, will be exorcized by the hand of the purity of a beautiful watercolors' brush stroke.