love, poetry, sadness, thoughts

don’t need a ticket to hell

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

I couldn’t.

my thoughts were too good at swimming

I wasn’t.


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 smile.

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.




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