my thoughts were numb in the glass of whisky
my lips were ready to get the taste of it
however, I have to admit it was the fifth
and the situation was getting way too risky.
all I wanted now was to spill it on the paper
and make it look like modern poetry or like an overly drunk love song made for comedy
because, again, I was my own art raper.
it was at a bad timing
my thoughts were too good at swimming
should I feel confortable in my own sadness?
I want to have the life this bottle of whisky has:
burn in the neck of the ones who are unlucky in love and all that jazz
or should I continue to crave the inexistent happiness?
because to believe in its existence it’s like having a ticket to hell,
it’s like walking on the sun at dawn
and pretend not to get burned as a rag, as a pawn.
take my hand, I will be your chaperon, I know this place too well.
I’ve grown up with you addicted to the smell of tangerine in the air
I’ve had the tragedy in my blood since I became your body
I don’t know why your indifference fails to kill me lately
it seems to have been a lie that I used every year.
I’m walking down on the main street of my soul
I try to talk to everybody who is out there
some might just say they have a funeral to attend somewhere
I avoid asking… it’s clear I’m dead on the whole.
I would have liked to come too,
but, sadly, I forgot the flowers and you
from my home, you know, it was just a mile.