There he was,
In his vividly printed top and pressed trousers
Beaming like crazy
And minds have never been more visionary

There he smiles,
A breathing myth, a folklore
And hearts suddenly touched each other in places
where none has touched before

There he walks,
A knight with no sword, nor rose
But eyes, certainly, have never seen a star this close

And there he goes, he holds my hand
And time, for once, came to rest, instead of run



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
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,
dust heap 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 glide, slide and sway 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 unstoppable.