Sometimes, words

I should be telling you

are suspended

at the tip of

my tongue

So when you ask me

“what’s wrong?”

I can only make out

the easy


And the words

you didn’t hear

died in my lips

and aged with time

I have grown a forest

out of the things

I didn’t tell

and if you listen well

you’ll hear the rain

came from the

questions you never ask

and the weight

drags on every day

that you’ll find my smile

prepared to break

set to die

You see, when words left

Silence knocked

and asked me

to pack my bags

and let go

but you said



“please, let’s fix this”


“listen to me”

I knew I have to throw this away

I should let go

I knew I have to leave


Sometimes, words

I should be telling you

are suspended

at the tip of

my tongue



The fever paces the streets, blinding the corridors in its nocturnal sadness

looking for eyes wandering, lost,

still and burdened in its own color
The wind plays with the cold for months even in the warm seasons.

A body crosses the bridge still wearing his mustache, tangled with ice

His eyes, a black hole; his lips, the shredding of a self

He’s suddenly whole, then suddenly empty

the fever builds a house out of a man
stores in it jars and jars of isolation, rusty toolboxes, dustheap of journals, of photographs, letters unread

the floor is soiled and dirty

the walls stand in exhaustion

At night, he dances with the doom and torment, with brooms and sticks and unusual

Distress plays a music ethereal in his ears

the fever took over the bedposts, the pillows, the blanket,

and the darkness has a bright color

the cellular rings and rings until it stopped

The man is helled to bed and sorry

until he is no more

Until he is nothing
The fever finished the house

Steps into the chair like a master

Harried the depths of his heart

and found nothing

Soundlessly, the man hangs himself in the ceiling

And the deads sound the bells of forlorn

The fever smiles

and parades the street looking for sad eyes to feed.

I am a dancer.

I can make my sentences move with the rhythm of my thoughts.

And every word glides and slides and sways with my metaphors.

I am a singer, a composer.

I create the melody of my verses.

Every line beats. Every beat echoes.

Every echo lingers in the soul of the listener.

I am a weaver.

I weave transitions. I weave thoughts. I weave meanings.

I have the potential to make a single thread of idea grow into sets of longer threads.

These threads I repeatedly cross and weave into a beautiful fabric.

I am a painter.

My abstraction and symbolism rendered on the interior walls can create scenes from life.

That canvas, walls, floors, doors, and cabinets, I can fill them up with colors.

Each color of varying tone and intensity.

I am a photographer.

I can reproduce what you see.

I capture moments with my phrases.

I can create a real-world scenes with my pen.

I am an animator.

My words have the power to make figures move.

I can kill you one second and revive you in the next.

I can make the rain fall, the storm rage and the sun shine.

I am everyone by just being one.


And I can make anyone immortal.

I am boundless.

I am limitless.

And I am always unstoppable.

For I am always, A Writer.